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LiURARY 


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PR  4819  Al   1800; 
UNIVERSITY   OF   CALIFORNIA    SAN   DIEOO 


IrORNIA,  SAN  OIEG( 
CALIFORNIA 


3   1822  01295  1638 


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THE    HAUNT    OF   THE    NIGHTINGALE. 


Tnu 


POETICAL    WORKS 


OF 


JEAN    INGELOW, 


INCLUDING 


TUE  SUEPHEED  LADY  AND  OTHER  POEMS, 


XEW  YORK : 
THOMAS  Y.  CKOWELL  &  CO., 

No.  J 3  AsToit  Place. 


Press  of  W.   F.   Brown  &  Co.,  218  Franklin  Street,  Boston. 


DEDICATIOU. 


TO 

GEORGE   K.  INGELOW 

TOUK    LOVING    SISTER 

OFFERS  TOU  THESE  POEMS,    PARTLY   AP 
AN   aXPKESSION   OF   HER  AFFECTION,    PAKTLY  FOR  TITD 

PLEASURE  OF  CONNECTING   HER  EFFORT 

WITH    YOUR  NAME. 


HeTuitng ton,  i}u.ae,  ISBi. 


CONTENTS, 


POEMS.  PAaU. 

Divided 9 

noNOKS.  —  Part  I 13 

HoNOKS.  —  Pan  II 21 

EEQaicscAT  IN  Pace 31 

Sdppkr  at  the  Mill 38 

Scholar  and  Oarpenteb  47 

The  Star'8  Monument 58 

A  I>E/ I)  Year 81 

Reflections  written  fob  the  Portfolio  Society 85 

The  Letter  L 88 

The  High  Tide  on  the  Coast  of  Lincolnshire  (1571) Ill 

Aeteunoon  at  a  Parsonage ...  116 

Bonos  of  Seven  ; 

Seven  times  One.  —  Exultation 126 

Seven  times  Two.  —  Komance 127 

Seven  times  Three.  —  Love 128 

Seven  times  Four.  —  Maternity 129 

Seven  times  Five.  —  Widowhood 130 

Seven  times  Six.  —  Giving  in  Marriage 131 

Seven  tiiiiea  Seven.  —  Longing  for  Home 132 

A  CoTTAOE  in  a  Chine 134 

Persephone 138 

A  Sea  Song 141 

Bkothers,  and  a  Sermon 142 

A  Wedding  Song  _. 165 

The  FonK  Bridges 166 

A  Mother  showing  the  Portrait  of  hek  Child 188 

Strife  and  Peace 19b 

A  stoky  op  doom,  and  othek  poems. 

The  Dreams  that  oamk  Tiu'k 19» 

Sonus  on  the  Voicks  of  liiuDs: 

Introduction. — Child  .'uhI  Boatman 21JJ 

The  Niglitingale  heard  hy  the  UnsatiBlled  Heart 213 

Sand  Martinit 'ilH 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB. 

A  Poet  Ir.  his  Youth,  and  the  Cuckoo  Bird 218 

A  Kaven  in  a  White  (;hiiie 22S 

The  Warbling  of  Blackbirds  »> 

Sea-MewB  in  Winter  Time 226 

Laueance 227 

Songs  of  the  Night  Watches: 

Intrcductorj'.  —  Apprenticed , 258 

The  First  Watah  — Tired 259 

The  Middltt  Watch 265 

Tlie  M or. ing  Watch    268 

Concluding  Song  of  Dawn 270 

A  Storv  of  Doom 271 

Contrasted  Songs  : 

Sailing  beyond  Seas 348 

Kemonstrauce 3-V9 

Song  for  till-  Night  of  Christ's  Itesurrectioii SSO 

Song  of  Margaret Sf* 

Song  of  the  Going  Away 357 

A  Lily  and  a  Lute 358 

Gladys  and  her  Island .iCe 

Songs  with  Preludes: 

Wedlock 391 

Regret 394 

Lamentation 395 

Dominion 397 

Friendship  40) 

Winbtanlby 402 


TUE  MONIIIONS  OF  THE  UNSEEN,   AND  POEMS  OF  LOVE 
AND  CHILDHOOD. 

The  Monitions  of  the  Unseen 41.') 

A  Birthday  Walk 43."' 

Not  in  Vain  1  Waited 435 

A  Gleaning  Song 43«i 

With  a  Diamond 4:i7 

E  A  N  c  Y 4.17 

Compensation 438 

LooKiN<}  D(»\rN 4;V" 

Maiuiied  Lovers 43a 


COAT£7\'TS. 


PAGE. 

A  Winter  Song 441 

Binding  Shkaves 442 

Work 443 

Wishing 443 

To  444 

Ox  THE  Borders  of  Cannock  Chase 444 

|The  Mariner's  Cave 445 

I A  Keverie 453 

Defton  Wood 456 

The  Snowdrop  Monument  Cin  Lichfield  Cathedral) 457 

An  Ancient  Chess  King 459 

Comfort  in  the  Night 460 

Though  all  Great  Deeds 4G0 

The  Long  White  Seam 461 

An  Old  Wife's  Song 462 

Cold  and  Quiet 463 

A  Snow  Mountain 464 

Sleep 465 

Promising 465 

Love 466 

Poems  Written  on  the  Deaths  of  three  Children  : 

Ilenry,  aged  eight  years 4G7 

Samuel,  aged  nine  years 471 

Katie,  aged  live  years 474 

The  Two  Margarets  : 

I.  Margaret  by  tlie  Mere  Side 477 

II.  Margaret  in  the  Xebec 488 

The  Shephekd  Ladt 506 

Above  the  Clouds 507 

Love's  Thread  of  Gold 608 

Failure 508 

One  Morning,  On  !  so  Early 509 

The  Days  without  Allov 510 

The  Lkavks  of  Lign  Aloes 511 

On  the  Kocks  nv  Aherdeen 511 

Fkathf.rs  and   Moss 512 

BwK.KT  IS  Childhood 512 

The  (tVpsv's  Selling  Song 513 

Mv  Fau:  Lady ,... 513 

Slkkp  and  Time 514 

Mahter.  quoth  the  Auld  Hound... 614 

LiKJR  A  Lavkkouk  in  the  Lift ..  616 


PAGE. 

At  One  Again 515 

I.    Noonday 515 

II.     Sunset 51C 

III.    Tbe  Dream  517 

IV     The  Waking  518 

V.    ASong 518 

VI.    Lovers 519 

VII.    Falliers 520 

Horns .  cai 


POEMS, 


DIVIDED. 


I. 

;  Aw  empty  sky,  a  world  of  heather, 

Purple  of  foxglove,  yellow  of  broom  ; 
We  two  among  them  wading  together, 
Shaking  out  honey,  treading  perfume. 

Crowds  of  bees  are  giddy  with  clover,' 
Ciowds  of  grasshoppers  skip  at  our  feet, 

Crowds  of  larks  at  their  matins  hang  over 
Thanking  the  Lord  for  a  life  t^o  sweet. 

Flusheth  the  rise  with  her  purple  favor, 
Gloweth  the  cleft  with  her  golden  ring, 

'Twixt  the  two  brown  butterflies  waver, 
Lightly  settle,  and  sleepily  swing. 

We  two  walk  till  the  purple  dieth 

And  short  dry  grass  under  foot  is  >)rown. 

But  one  little  streak  at  a  distance  lieth 
Green  like  a  ribbon  to  prank  the  down. 

II. 

Over  the  grass  we  stepped  unto  it, 

And  God  He  knoweth  how  blithe  we  werel 

Nevpr  a  voice  to  bid  us  eschew  it : 

Hev  the  green  ribbon  that  showed  so  lair  I 


lO  DIVIDED. 

Hey  the  green  ribbon  I  we  kneeled  beside  it, 
We  parted  the  grasses  dewy  and  sheen  ; 

Drop  over  drop  there  filtered  and  slided 
A  tiny  bright  beck  that  trickled  between- 

Tinkle,  tinkle,  sweeth^  it  sung  to  us, 
Light  was  our  talk  as  of  faory  bells — 

Faery  wedding-bells  faintly  rung  to  us 
Down  in  their  fortunate  parallels. 

Hand  in  hand,  while  the  sun  peered  over, 

We  lapped  the  grass  on  that  youngling  spring  ; 

Swept  back  its  rushes,  smoothed  its  clover, 
And  said,  "  Let  us  follow  it  westering." 

III. 

A  dapple  sky,  a  world  of  meadows, 
Circling  above  us  the  black  rooks  fly 

Forward,  backward  ;  lo,  their  dark  shadows 
Flit  on  the  blossoming  tapestry — 

Flit  on  the  beck,  for  her  long  grass  parteth 

As  hair  from  a  maid's  bright  eyes  blown  back  ;/ 

And,  lo,  the  sun  like  a  lover  darteth 

His  flattering  smile  on  her  wayward  track. 

Sing  on  1  we  sing  in  the  glorious  weather 

Till  one  steps  over  the  tiny  strand. 
So  narrow,  in  sooth,  that  still  together 

On  either  brink  we  go  hand  in  band. 

The  beck  grows  wider,  the  hands  must  sever. 

On  either  margin,  our  songs  all  done. 
We  move  ai)art,  while  .she  singeth  ever. 

Taking  the  course  of  the  stooping  sun. 

He  pra5'8,  "  Come  over" — I  may  not  follow  ; 
1  cry,  "  Return  " — but  he  cannot  come  : 


DIVIDED.  I J 


We  speak,  -we  lauprh,  but  with  voices  hollow  ; 
Our  bands  are  liaugiug,  our  hearts  are  uuiub. 


IV. 

A  breathinp:  sigh,  a  sigh  for  answer, 

A  little  talking  of  outward  things: 
The  careless  beck  is  a  merry  dancer. 

Keeping  swset  time  to  the  air  she  sings. 

A  little  pain  when  the  beck  grows  wider  ; 

"  Cross  to  me  now — for  her  wavelets  swell :  " 
"T  may  not  cross  " — and  the  voice  beside  her 

Faintly  reacheth,  though  heeded  well. 

No  backward  path  ;  ah  !  no  returning ; 

No  second  crossing  that  ripple's  flow: 
"  Come  to  me  now,  for  the  west  is  burning ; 

Come  ere  it  darkens;  " — "  Ah,  no  I  ah,  no  !  '' 

Then  cries  of  pain,  and  arms  outreaching — 
The  beck  grows  wider  and  swift  and  deep  : 

Passionate  words  as  of  one  V)eseechinfr — 

The  louii  beck  drowns  them ;  we  walk,  and  woep. 


V. 

A  yellow  moon  in  splendor  drooping, 
A  tired  queen  with  her  state  oppressed, 

Low  Viy  rushes  and  swordgrass  stooping, 
Lies  she  soft  on  the  waves  at  rest. 

The  desert  lieavens  have  felt  her  sadness  \  ] 
Her  earth  will  weej)  her  some  dewy  *ear8  ; 

The  wild  liook  <'m.1s  her  tnn<'  <>f  Lrladness, 
And  goetU  milly  as  tjoul  that  fears. 


12  DIVIDED. 


We  two  walk  on  in  our  grassy  places 

On  either  marge  of  the  luoonht  flood, 
With  the  moon's  own  sachiess  in  our  faces, 
\  Where  joy  is  withered^  blossom  and  bud. 


VI. 

A  shady  freshness,  chafers  whirring, 

A  little  piping  of  leaf-hid  birds  ; 
A  flutter  of  wings,  a  fltful  stirring,  ^j^ 

A  cloud  to  the  eastward  snowy  as  curds.      ^^^^ 

Bare  glassy  slopes,  where  kids  are  tethered  ;  , , 

{  Round  vallevs  like  nests  all  fernv-linmi  ; 
'  Round  hills,  with  fluttering  tree-tops  feathered, 
Swell  high  in  their  freckled  robes  behind. 

A  rose-flush  tender,  a  thrill,  a  quiver. 

When  golden  gleams  to  the  tree-tops  glide  ; 

A  flashing  edge  for  the  milk-white  river. 
The  beck,  a  river — with  still  sleek  tide. 

Broad  and  white,  and  polished  as  silver. 

On  she  goes  under  fruit-laden  trees; 
Sunk  in  leafage  cooeth  the  culver. 

And  'plaineth  of  love's  disloyalties. 

Glitters  the  dew  and  shines  the  river. 

Up  comes  the  lily  and  dries  her  bell  ; 
But  two  are  walking  apart  forever, 
And  wave  their  hands  for  a  mute  farewelL 


VTI. 

A  braver  swell,  a  swifter  sliding  \ 

The  river  hasteth,  her  banks  recede  : 

Wing-like  sails  on  her  bosom  gliding 
Bear  down  the  lily  and  drown  the  reed. 


D/VTDED.  13 


Stately  prows  are  rising  and  bowing  «. 

(Shouts  of  mariners  winnow  the  air), )  '^^ 
And  lavel  sands  for  banks  endowing 

The  tiny  green  ribbon  that  showed  so  fair. 

While,  O  my  heart !  as  white  sails  shiver 
And  crowds  are  passing,  and  banks  stretch  wide, 

E<  w  hard  to  follow,  with  lips  that  quiver, 
That  moving  speck  on  the  far-off  side  1 

Farther,  farther — I  see  it — know  it — 

My  eyes  brim  over,  it  melts  away  : 
Only  my  heart  to  my  heart  shall  show  it 

As  I  walk  desolate  day  by  day. 


VIII. 

And  yet  1  know  past  all  doubting,  truly — 
And  knowledge  greater  than  grief  can  dim — 

I  know,  as  he  loved,  he  will  love  me  duly — 
Yea,  better — e'en  better  than  I  love  him. 

And  as  I  walk  by  the  vast  calm  river, 

The  awful  river  so  dread  to  see, 
1  say,  "  Thy  breadth  and  thy  depth  forever 

Are  bridged  by  his  thoughts  that  cross  to  me." 


HONORS.— PART  I. 

A    FJnhnlar  is  musing  on  his  Want  of  Success. 

To  strive — and  fail.     Yes,  r  did  strive  and  fail, 
(  I  set  mine  eyes  upon  a  certain  night  ' 
Tofmd  a  certain  star — and  could  not  hail 
With  them  its  dtep-stt  light. 


*4  DIVIDED. 


Fool  that  I  was  !  T  mill  rehearsp.  in)j  fault  : 
/,  winffless,  thought  inyseJf  on  high  to  lift 

Among  the  winged — /  set  these  feet  that  halt 
To  run  against  the  swift. 

And  yet  this  man,  that  loved  me  so,  can  write — • 
That  loves  me,  I  would  say,  can  let  me  see  ; 

Or  fain  would  have  me  think  he  counts  hut  light 
These  Honors  lost  to  me. 


/ 


[The  Letter  of  his  Friend.] 

"  What  are  they  ?fthat  old  house  of  yours  which  j^rave 
Such  welconies  oft  to  me,  the  sunbeams  fall 

Still  down  the  squares  of  blue  and  white  which  pave 
Its  hospitable  hall, 

/  s^' 

7  A  brave  old  house  i  a  crarden  full  of  bees, 

Large  dropping  poppies,  and  queen  hollyhocks. 

With  butterflies  for  crowns — tree  peonies 
And  pinks  and  goldilocks. 

"  Go,  when  the  shadow  of  your  house  is  long 
Upon  the  garden — when  some  new-waked  bird, 

PecR/ng  and  fluttering,  chirps  a  sudden  song, 
And  not  a  leaf  is  stirred  ; 

**  But  every  one  drops  dew  from  cither  edge 

Upon  its  fellow,  while  an  amber  ray 
Slants  up  among  the  tree- tops  like  a  wedge 

Of  liquid  gold — to  play 

"  Over  and  under  them,  and  so  to  fall 
Upon  that  lane  of  water  lying  below — 

That  piece  of  sky  let  in,  that  you  dt   culi 
A  pond,  but  which  1  know 


DTVTDED.  15 


"  To  be  a  deep  and  wondrous  world  ;  for  I 

Have  seen  the  trees  within  it^ — marvellous  things 

So  thick  no  bird  betwixt  their  leaves  could  fly 
But  she  would  smite  her  wings  ; — 

"  Go  there,  I  say  ;  stand  at  the  water's  brink, 
And  shoals  of  spotted  grayling  you  shall  see 

Basking  between  the  shadows — look,  and  think 
'  This  beauty  is  for  me ; 

*'  *  For  me  this  freshness  in  the  morning  hours  ; 

For  me  the  water's  clear  tranquillity  ; 
For  me  that  soft  descent  of  chestnut  flowers ; 

The  cushat's  cry  for  me. 

"  'The  lovely  laughter  of  the  windswayed  wheat ; 

The  easy  slope  of  yonder  pastoral  hill  ; 
The  sedgy  brook  whereby  the  red  kine  meet 

And  wade  and  drink  their  fill.' 

"  Then  saunter  down  that  terrace  whence  the  sea 
All  fair  with  wing-like  sails  you  may  discern  ; 

Be  glad,  and  say,  '  This  beauty  is  for  me — 
A  thing  to  love  and  learn. 

"  '  For  me  the  bounding  in  of  tides  ;  for  me 
The  lying  bare  of  sands  when  they  retreat  ; 

The  puri)le  flush  of  cahns,  the  sparkling  glee 
When  waves  and  sunshine  meet.' 

"So,  after  gazing,  homeward  turn,  and  mount 
To  that  long  chamber  in  the  roof  ;   there  tell 

Your  heart  the  laid-up  lore  it  holds  to  count 
And  prize  and  ponder  well. 

"  The  lookings  onward  of  the  race  before 
It  had  a  past  to  make  it  look  behind  ; 

Its  reverent  wonders,  and  its  doubtings  soro, 
Its  adorations  blind. 


l6  DrVTDED. 


I' The  thunder  of  its  war-songs, land  the  gl  'W 
Of  chants  to  freedom  hy  the  old  world  sung  ; 

The  sweet  love-  cadences  that  long  ago 
Dropped  from  the  old  world  tongue. 

'  And  then  this  new- world  lore  that  takes  account 

Of  tangled  star-dust  ;  maps  the  triple  whirl 
Of  blue  and  red  and  argent  worlds  that  mount 
And  greet  the  Irish  Earl  ; 

/  "O  float  across  the  tube  that  Herschel  sways, 
Like  pale-rose  chaplets,  or  like  sapphire  mist ; 
Or  hang  or  droop  along  the  heavenly  ways, 
Like  scarfs  of  amethyst.  ) 

*'  O  strange  it  is  and  wide  the  new- world  lore. 
For  next  it  treateth  of  our  native  dust  1 

Must  dig  out  buried  monsters,  and  explore 
The  green  earth's  fruitful  crust  ; 

"  Must  write  tho  story  of  her  seething  youth — 
How  lizards  paddled  in  her  luke-warm  seas  ; 

Must  show  the  cones  she  ripened,  and  forsooth 
Count  seasons  on  her  trees  ; 

"  Must  know  her  weight,  and  pry  into  her  age, 
Count  her  old  beach  lines  by  their  tidal  swell ; 

Uer  sunken  mountains  name,  her  craters  gauge, 
II  5r  cold  volcanoes  tell  ; 

*  And  treat  her  as  a  ball,  that  one  might  pass 
Prom  this  hand  to  the  other — such  a  ball 

As  he  could  measure  with  a  blade  of  grass. 
And  say  it  was  but  small 

"  ITonors  1  O  friend  I  pray  you  bear  with  me : 
Tho  grass  hath  time  to  grow  in  meadow  lands, 


L^ 


DTVIDFD.  17 


And  leisurely  the  opal  inunnuring  sea 
Breaks  on  her  yellow  sands  ; 

"And  leisurely  the  ring:-dove  on  her  nest 

Broods  till  her  tender  chick  will  peck  the  shell; 

And  leisurely  down  fall  from  ferny  crest 
The  dew-drops  on  the  well  j 

"  And  leisurely  your  life  and  spirit  ^ew, 
With  yet  the  time  to  grow  and  ripen  free  : 

Ko  judgment  past  withdraws  that  boon  from  you, 
Nor  granteth  it  to  me. 

"Still  must  I  plod,  and  still  in  cities  moil ; 

From  precious  leisure,  learned  leisure  far, 
Dull  my  best  self  with  Jiandliug  common  soil ; 

Yet  mine  those  honors  are. 

"  Mine  they  are  called  ;  they  are  a  name  which  meana 
'  This  man  had  steady  pulses,  tranquil  nerves ; 

Here,  as  in  other  fields,  the  most  he  gleans 
Wlio  works  and  never  swerves. 

"  '  We  measTire  not  his  mind  ;  we  cannot  tell 

What  lieth  under,  over,  or  beside 
The  test  we  put  him  to  :  he  doth  excel, 

We  know,  where  he  is  tried  ; 

•' '  But,  if  he  boasts  some  further  excellence — 

Mind  to  create  as  we41  as  to  attain  ; 
To  sway  his  peers  by  golden  eloquence, 

As  wind  doth  shift  a  fane  ; 

"  •  To  sing  among  the  poets — we  are  naught : 

We  cannot  drop  a  line  into  that  sea 
And  read  its  fathoms  off,  nor  gauge  a  thought, 

Nor  map  a  simile. 


l8  DIVIDED. 


"  'It  may  be  of  all  voices  sublunar 

The  only  one  he  echoes  we  did  try  ; 
Wo  may  have  come  upon  the  only  star 

That  twinkles  in  his  sky.' 

"  And  so  it  was  with  rae." 

O  false  my  friend  ! 

False,  false,  a  random  charge,  a  blame  undue  ; 
Wrest  not  fair  reasoninp  to  a  crooked  end : 

False,  false,  as  you  are  true  ! 

But  I  read  on:  "And  so  it  was  with  me  ; 

Your  golden  constellations  lying  apart 
They  neither  hailed  nor  greeted  heartily, 

Nor  noted  on  their  chart. 

"  And  yet  to  you  and  not  to  me  belong 
(^  Those  finer  instincts  that,  like  second  sight 
And  hearing,  catch  creation's  under-song, 
And  see  by  inner  light.  )      >..^»A'V»/^' 

"  You  are  a  well,  whereon  I,  gazing,  see 
Rellections  of  the  upper  heaveus^a  well 

From  whence  come  deep,  deep  echoes  up  to  nie — 
Some  underwave's  low  swell. 

"I  cannot  soar  into  the  heights  you  show, 
Nor  dive  among  the  deeps  that  yon  reveal ; 

But  it  is  iimcii  that  liigh  things  AliK  to  know, 
That  deep  things  ARK  to  feel. 

"  'Tis  yours,  not  mine,  to  pluck  out  of  your  breast 
Some  human  truth,  whose  workings  recondite 

Were  unaltired  in  worils,  and  manifest 
And  hold  it  forth  to  light, 

«   And  cry,  '  Behold  this  tiling  that  I  have  found.' 
And  though  they  knew  not  of  it  till  that  day, 


DIVIDED.  19 


Kor  should  have  done  with  no  man  to  expound 
Its  meaning,  yet  they  say, 

"  '  We  do  accept  it :  lower  than  the  shoals 
We  skim,  this  diver  went,  nor  did  create, 

But  find  it  for  us  deeper  in  our  souls 
Than  we  can  penetrate,' 

"You  were  to  me  the  world's  interpreter, 
The  man  that  taught  me  Nature's  unknown  tongue, 

And  to  the  notes  of  her  wild  dulcimer 
First  set  sweet  words  and  sung. 

"  And  what  am  I  to  you  ?     A  steady  hand 
To  hold,  a  steadfast  heart  to  trust  withal ; 

Merely  a  man  that  loves  you,  and  will  stand 
By  you,  whate'er  befall. 

"  But  need  we  praise  his  tendance  tutelar 

Who  feeds  a  flame  that  warms  him  ?     Yet  'tis  true 

1  love  you  for  the  sake  of  what  you  are. 
And  not  of  what  you  do  : — 

"As  heaven's  high  twins,  whereof  in  Tyrian  blue 
The  one  revolveth  ;  through  his  course  immense 

Might  love  his  fellow  of  the  d.amask  hue. 
For  like,  and  dilference. 

"  For  different  pathways  ever  more  decreed 

To  intersect,  but  not  to  interfere  ; 
For  common  goal,  two  as[)ect3,  and  one  speed, 

One  centre  and  one  year  ; 

'*  For  deep  afflnities,  for  drawings  strong. 
That  by  their  nature  each  must  needs  exert ; 

For  loved  alliance,  and  for  union  lonjr, 
That  stands  before  desert. 


20  DIVIDED. 


"  And  yet  desert  makes  brighter  not  the  less. 
For  nearest  his  own  star  he  shall  not  fail 

To  think  those  rays  nnniatched  for  nobleness, 
That  distance  counts  but  pale. 

"  Be  pale  afar,  since  still  to  me  you  shine, 

And  must  while  Nature's  eldest  law  shall  hold  ;"— 

Ah,  there's  the  thought  which  makes  his  random  lint 
Dear  as  refined  gold  ! 

Then  shall  I  drink  this  draught  nf  nxymel, 
Part  sweet,  part  sharp  ?    Mijstif  d erprized  to  know 

Is  sharp  ;   the  cause  is  sweet,  and  truth  to  tell 
Few  would  that  cause  forego, 

Which  is,  that  this  of  all  the  men  on  earth 

Doth  love  me  well  enough  to  count  me  great — 
To  think  my  soul  a.7}d  his  of  equal  girth — 

0  liberal  estimate  ! 

And  yet  it  is  so;  he  is  bound  to  me, 

For  human  love  makes  aliens  near  of  kin  ; 
By  it  I  rise,  there  is  equality  : 

1  rise  to  thee,  my  twin. 

"  Take  courage  " — courage  !  ay,  my  purple  peer, 
I  will  take  courage  ;  for  thy  Tyrian  rays 

Refresh  me  to  the  heart,  and  strangely  dear 
And  healing  is  thy  praise. 

"  Take  courage,"  quoth  he,  "  and  respect  the  mind 
Your  Maker  gave,  for  good  your  fate  fulfil  ; 

The  fate  round  many  hearts  your  own  to  wind." 
Twin  soul,  I  will  I  I  will  I 


HONORS.  21 


HONORS.— PART  II. 

The  Answer. 

As  one  who,  journeying,  checks  the  rein  in  haste 
Because  a  cliasm  doth  yawn  across  his  way 

Too  wide  for  leaping,  and  too  steeply  faced 
For  climber  to  essay — 

As  such  an  one,  being  brought  to  sudden  stand, 
Doubts  all  his  foregone  path  if  'twere  the  true, 

And  turns  to  this  and  then  to  the  other  hand 
As  knowing  not  what  to  do, — 

So  I,  being  checked,  am  with  my  path  at  strife 
Which  led  to  such  a  chasm,  and  there  doth  end. 

False  path  !  it  cost  me  priceless  years  of  life, 
My  well-beloved  friend.    , 

J 

There  fell  a  flute  when  Ganymede  went  up — 
The  flute  that  he  was  wont  to  play  upon  : 

It  dropped  beside  tlip  jonquil's  milk-white  cup, 
And  freckled  cowslips  wan — 

Dropped  from   his  heedless  hand  when,  dazed  and 
mute. 

He  flailed  upon  the  eagle's  quiverintr  wing. 
Aspiring,  panting— ay,  it  dropped — the  flute 

Erewhile  a  cherished  thing. 

Among  the  delicate  grasses  and  the  bells 

Of  crocuses  tliat  spotted  a  rill  side, 
I  picked  up  such  a  flute,  and  its  clear  swells 

To  my  young  lips  replied. 


22  IWN'ORS. 


I  played  thereon,  and  its  response  was  sweet ; 

But,  lo,  they  took  from  me  that  solacing:  reed. 
•'  O  shame  !  "  they  said,  "  such  music  is  not  meet ; 

Go  up  like  Ganymede. 

*'  Go  up,  despise  these  humble  grassy  things, 
Sit  on  the  golden  edge  of  yonder  cloud." 

Alas !  though  ne'er  for  me  those  eagle  wings 
Stooped  from  their  eyrie  proud. 

My  flute !  and  flung  away  its  echoes  sleep  ; 

But  as  for  me,  my  life-pulse  beateth  low  ; 
And  like  a  last  year's  leaf  enshrouded  deep 

Under  the  drifting  snow, 

Or  like  some  vessel  wrecked  upon  the  sand 
Of  torrid  swamps,  with  all  her  merchandise, 

And  left  to  rot  betwixt  the  sea  and  land, 
My  helpless  spirit  lies. 

Ruing,  I  think  for  what  then  was  I  made  ; 

What  end  appointed  for — what  use  designed  ? 
Now  let  me  right  this  heart  that  was  bewrayed — 

Unveil  these  eyes  gone  blind. 

My  well-beloved  friend,  at  noon  to-day 
Over  our  cliffs  a  white  mist  lay  unfurled. 

So  thick,  one  standing  on  their  brink  might  say, 
Lo,  here  doth  end  the  world. 

A  white  abyss  beneath,  and  naught  beside  ; 

Yet,  hark  !  a  cropping  sound  not  ten  feet  down  : 
Soon  I  cfluld  tracte  some  browsing  lambs  that  hied 

Through  rock-paths  cleft  and  brown. 

And  here  and  there  green  tufts  of  grass  peered  through 
Salt  lavender,  and  sea  thrift ;  then  behold, 

The  mist,  subsiding  ever,  bared  to  view 
A  beast  of  giant  mould. 


HONORS.  23 


She  seemed  a  great  sea  monster  lying  content 
With  all  her  cubs  about  her  :  but  deep — deep — 

The  subtle  mist  went  floating  ;  its  descent 
Showed  the  world's  end  was  steep. 

It  shook,  it  melted,  shaking  more,  till,  lo, 

The  sprawling  monster  was  a  rock  ;  her  brood 

Were  boulders,  whereon  seamews  white  as  snow 
Sat  watching  for  their  food. 

Then  once  again  it  sank,  its  day  was  done  : 
Part  rolled  away,  part  vanished  utterly, 

And  glimmering  softly  under  the  white  sun, 
Behold  !  a  great  white  sea. 

O  that  the  mist  which  veileth  my  To-come 
Would  so  dissolve  and  yield  unto  mine  eyee 

A  worthy  path !  I'd  count  not  wearisome 
Long  toil,  nor  enterprise. 

But  strain  to  reach  it  ;  ay,  with  wrestlings  stout 
And  hopes  that  even  in  the  dark  will  grow 

(Like  plants  in  dungeons,  reaching  feelers  out), 
And  ploddings  wary  and  slow. 

Is  there  such  path  already  made  to  fit 
The  measure  of  my  foot  ?     It  shall  atone 

For  much,  if  I  at  length  may  light  on  it 
And  know  it  for  mine  own. 

But  is  there  none  ?  why,  then  'tis  more  than  well : 
A  nil  glad  at  heart  myself  will  hew  one  out, 

Let  me  l)e  only  sure  ;  for,  sooth  to  tell, 
The  sorest  dole  is  doubt — 

Doubt,  a  blank  twilight  of  the  heart,  which  mars 
All  sweetest  colors  in  its  dimness  same  ; 

A  soul-mist,  through  whose  rifts  familiar  sta,r3 
Beholding,  we  misname. 


24  HONORS. 


A  ripple  on  the  inner  sea,  which  shakes 
Tiiose  images  that  on  its  breast  reposed  ; 

A  fold  upon  the  wind-swayed  flag,  that  breaks 
The  motto  it  disclosed. 

0  doubt !  O  doubt  I  I  know  my  destiny  ; 

I  feel  thee  fluttering  bird-like  in  my  breast  j 

1  cannot  loose,  but  1  will  sing  to  thee, 
And  flatter  thee  to  rest. 

Tliere  is  no  certainty,  "my  bosom's  guest," 

No  proving  for  the  things  whereof  ye  wot ; 
^For,  like  the  dead  to  sight  unmanifest,     , 
They  are,  and  they  are  not.  ty^y^^ 

"But  surely  as  they  are,  for  God  is  truth, 
And  as  they  are  not,  for  Ave  saw  them  die, 

So  surely  from  the  heaven  drops  light  for  youth, 
If  youth  will  walk  thereby. 

And  can  1  see  this  light  ?     It  may  be  so ; 

"  But  see  it  thus  and  thus,"  my  fathers  said. 
The  living  do  not  rule  this  world  ;  ah,  no  1 

It  is  the  dead,  the  dead. 

Shall  I  1)6  slave  to  every  noble  soul. 

Study  the  dead,  and  to  their  s{)iritsbend  ; 

Or  learn  to  read  my  own  heart's  folded  scroll, 
And  make  self-rule  my  end  ? 

Thought  from  without — O  shall  1  take  on  trust, 
And  life  from  others  modelled  stcjil  or  win; 

Or  shall  T  heave  to  light,  and  clear  of  rust 
My  true  life  from  within. 

O,  let  me  be  myself  1     But  where,  O  where. 
Under  this  heap  of  precedent,  this  mound 

Of  customs,  modes,  and  m.ixims,  cumbrance  rare, 
Shall  tho  Myself  be  found  ? 


HONORS.  2C 


O  thou  Myself,  thy  fathers  thee  debarred 
None  of  their  wisdom,  but  their  folly  came 

Therewith;  they  smoothed  thy  path,  but  made  it  hard 
For  thee  to  quit  the  same. 

With  glosses  they  obscured  God's  natural  truth, 
And  with  tradition  tarnished  His  revealed  ; 

With  vain  protections  they  endangered  youth, 
With  layings  bare  they  sealed. 

What  aileth  thee,  myself?     Alas  I  thy  hands 
Are  tired  with  old  opinions — heir  and  son, 

Thou  hast  inherited  thy  father's  lands 
And  all  his  debts  thereon. 

O  that  some  power  would  give  me  Adam's  eyes  ? 

O  for  the  straight  simplicity  of  Eve  I 
For  I  see  naught,  or  grow,  poor  fool,  too  wise 

With  seeing  to  believe. 

Exemplars  may  be  heaped  until  they  hide 

The  rules  that  they  were  made  to  render  plain  5 

Love  may  be  watched,  her  nature  to  decide, 
Until  love's  self  doth  wane. 

Ah  me!  and  when  forgotten  and  foregone 
We  leave  the  learning  of  departed  days. 

And  cease  the  generations  past  to  con, 
Their  wisdom  and  tlieir  ways — 

When  fain  to  learn  we  lean  into  the  dark, 
And  grope  to  feel  the  floor  of  the  abyss. 

Or  find  the  secret  boundary  lines  which  mark 
Where  soul  and  matter  kiss — 

Fair  world  !  these  j)uzzled  souls  of  ours  grow  weak 
Willi  boating  their  bruised  wings  against  The  rim 

That  bounds  their  utmost  (lying,  when  they  suelL 
The  dibtaut  and  the  dim. 


26  HONORS. 


We  pant,  we  strain  like  birds  against  their  wires  ; 

Are  sick  to  reach  the  vast  and  the  beyond  ; — 
And  what  avails,  if  still  to  our  desires 

Those  far-oir  gulfs  respond  ? 

Contentment  comes  not  therefore  ;  still  there  lies 
An  outer  distance  when  the  first  is  hailed, 

And  still  for  ever  yawns  before  our  eyes 
An  UTMOST — that  is  veiled. 

Searching  those  edges  of  the  universe. 

We  leave  the  central  fields  a  fallow  part ; 

To  feed  the  eye  more  precious  things  amerce, 
And  starve  the  darkened  heart. 

Then  all  goes  wrong  :  the  old  foundations  rock, 
One  scorns  at  him  of  old  who  gazed  unshod  ; 

One  striking  with  a  pickaxe  thinks  the  shock 
Shall  move  the  seat  of  God. 

A  little  way,  a  very  little  way 

^Life  is  so  short),  they  dig  into  the  rind, 

And  thev  are  very  sorry,  so  they  say, — 
Sorry  for  what  they  find. 

But  truth  is  sacred — ay,  and  must  b3  told  : 
There  is  a  story  long  beloved  of  man  ; 

We  must  forego  it,  for  it  will  not  hold — 
Nature  had  no  such  plan. 

And  then,  "  if  God  hath  said  it,"  some  should  cry, 
"  We  have  the  story  from  the  fountain  head  :  " 

Why,  then,  what  better  than  the  old  reply. 
The  first  "  Yea,  HATH  God  said  ?  " 

The  garden,  O  the  garden,  must  it  go, 

Source  of  our  hope  and  our  most  dear  regret? 

Th''  ancient  story,  must  it  no  more  show 
How  myn  may  win  it  yet? 


HONORS.  27 


And  all  upon  the  Titan  child's  decree. 
The  baby  science,  born  but  yesterday, 

That  in  its  rash  unlearned  infancy 
With  shells  and  stones  at  play, 

And  delving  in  the  outworks  of  this  world, 
And  little  crevices  that  it  could  reach, 

Discovered  certain  bones  laid  up,  and  furled 
Under  an  ancient  beach, 

And  other  waifs  that  lay  to  its  young  mind 
Some  fathoms  lower  than  they  ought  to  lie, 

By  gain  whereof  it  could  not  fail  to  find 
Much  proof  of  ancientry, 

Hints  at  a  pedigree  withdrawn  and  vast, 
Terrible  deeps,  and  old  obscurities, 

Or  soulless  origin,  and  twilight  passed 
In  the  primeval  seas. 

Whereof  it  tells,  as  thinking  it  hath  been 
Of  truth  not  meant  for  man  inheritor  ; 

As  if  this  knowledge  Heaven  had  ne'er  foreseen 
And  not  provided  for  ! 

Knowledge  ordained  to  live  !  although  the  fat« 
Of  much  that  went  before  it  was — to  die, 

And  be  called  ignorance  by  such  as  wait 
Till  the  next  drift  comes  by. 

O  marvellous  credulity  of  man  I 

If  God  indeed  kept  secret,  couldst  thou  know 
Or  follow  up  the  mighty  Artisan 

Unless  lie  willed  it  so  ? 

And  canst  thou  of  the  Maker  think  in  sooth 
That  of  the  Made  He  shall  be  found  at  fault, 

Ami  dream  of  wn^stiiig  from  llim  hidden  truth 
By  force  or  by  assault  'i 


28  HONORS. 


But  if  he  keeps  not  secret — if  thine  eyes 
He  openeth  to  His  wondrous  work  of  latfi — 

Think  how  in  soberness  thy  wisdom  lies, 
And  have  the  grace  to  wait., 

Wait,  nor  against  the  half-learned  lesson  frtit, 

Nor  chide  at  old  belief  as  if  it  erred. 
Because  thou  canst  not  reconcile  as  yet 

The  Worker  and  the  word. 

Either  the  Worker  did  in  ancient  days 
Give  us  the  word,  His  tale  of  love  and  might  3 

(And  if  in  truth  He  gave  it  us,  who  says 
He  did  not  give  it  right  ?) 

Or  else  He  gave  it  not,  and  then  indeed 

We  know  not  if  He  is — by  whom  our  years 

Are  portioned,  who  the  orphan  moons  doth  lead, 
And  the  unfathered  spheres. 

We  sit  unowned  upon  our  burial  sod, 

And  know  not  whence  we  come  or  whose  wo  bo, 

Comfortless  mourners  for  the  mount  of  (iod. 
The  rocks  of  Calvary  : 

Bereft  of  heaven,  and  of  the  long-loved  page 
Wrought  us  by  some  who  thought  with  death  to 
cope  ; 

Despairing  comforters,  from  age  to  age 
Sowing  the  seeds  of  hope  : 

Gracious  deceivers,  who  have  lifted  us 

Out  of  the  slough  where  ptus^ed  our  unknown  yovith; 
iJenelicunt  liars,  who  have  gifted  us 

With  sacred  love  of  truth  1 

Farewell  to  them  :  yet  i)ause  ere  thou  unmoor 
And  set  thine  ark  adrift  on  unknown  beas  ^ 

How  wert  thou  bettered  so,  or  more  secure 
Thou,  and  thy  destinies  ! 


iroyoRS.  39 


And  if  thon  searchest,  and  art  made  to  fear 
Facing  of  unread  riddles  dark  and  hard. 

And  mastering  not  their  majesty  austere. 
Their  meaning  locked  and  barred  : 

now  would  it  make  the  weight  and  wonder  less, 
If,  lifted  from  immortal  shoulders  down, 

The  worlds  were  cast  on  seas  of  emptiness 
In  realms  without  a  crown, 

And  (if  there  were  no  God)  were  left  to  rue 

Dominion  of  the  air  and  of  the  fire? 
Then  if  there  be  a  God,  "  Let  God  be  true, 

And  every  man  a  liar." 

But  as  for  me,  I  do  not  speak  as  one 
That  is  exempt :  I  am  with  life  at  feud  : 

My  heart  reproacheth  me,  as  there  were  none 
Of  so  small  gratitude ; 

Wherewith  shall  I  console  thee,  heart  o'  miue, 
And  still  thy  yearning  and  resolve  thy  doubt 

That  which  I  know,  and  that  which  1  divine, 
Alas  !  have  left  thee  out. 

I  have  aspired  to  know  the  might  of  God, 
As  if  the  story  of  His  love  was  furled. 

Nor  sacred  foot  the  grasses  e'er  had  trod 
Of  this  redeemed  world  : — 

Have  sunk  my  thoughts  as  lead  into  the  deep, 
To  groi)e  for  that  abyss  whence  evil  grew, 

And  spirits  of  ill,  with  eyes  that  cannot  weep. 
Hungry  and  desolate  Hew  ; 

As  if  their  legions  did  not  one  day  crowd 
The  death  pangs  of  the  Conciuering  Good  to  seel 

As  if  a  sacred  head  had  never  bowed 
In  deatii  for  man — for  me  ; 


30  ITONORS. 


Nor  ransomed  back  the  souls  beloved,  the  sons 
Of  men,  from  thraldom  with  the  nether  kings 

In  that  dark  country  where  those  evil  ones 
Trail  their  unhallowed  wings. 

And  didst  Thou  love  the  race  that  loved  not  Theo, 
And  didst  Thou  take  to  heaven  a  human  brow  ? 

Dost  plead  with  man's  voice  by  the  marvellous  sea  ? 
Art  Thou  his  kinsman  now  ? 

O  God,  O  kinsman  loved,  but  not  enough! 

0  man,  with  eyes  majestic  after  deatli. 

Whose  feet  have  toilod  along  our  pathways  rough, 
Whose  lips  drawn  human  breath  ! 

By  that  one  likeness  which  is  ours  and  Thine, 
By  that  one  nature  which  doth  Iiold  us  kin. 

By  that  high  heaven  where,  sinless,  Thou  dost  shine 
To  draw  us  sinners  in, 

By  Thy  last  silence  in  the  judgment-hall. 

By  long  foreknowledge  of  the  deadly  tree, 
By  darkness,  by  the  wormwood  and  the  gall, 

1  pray  Thee  visit  me. 

Come,  lest  this  heart  should,  cold  and  cast  away, 
Die  ere  the  guest  adored  she  entertain — 

Lest  eyes  whicli  never  saw  Thine  earthly  day 
Should  miss  Thy  heavenly  reign. 

Come  weary-eyed  from  seeking  in  the  night 

Thy  wanderers  strayed  upon  the  pathless  wold, 

Who  wounded,  dying,  cry  to  Thee  for  light, 
And  cannot  find  their  fold. 

And  deign,  O  Watcher,  with  the  sleepless  brow, 
Pathetic  in  its  yearning — deign  reply : 

Is  there,  O  ifi  there  aught  that  such  as  Thou 
Wouldst  take  from  such  as  I  ? 


REQ  U I  ESC  A  T  IN  PA  CE.  3 1 


Are  there  no  briars  across  Thy  pathway  thrust? 

Are  there  no  thorns  that  compass  it  about? 
Nor  any  stones  tliat  Thou  wilt  deign  to  trust 

My  hands  to  gather  out  ? 

0,  if  thou  wilt,  and  if  such  bliss  might  be, 
It  were  a  cure  for  doubt,  regret,  delay — 

Let  my  lost  pathway  go — what  aileth  me  ?— 
There  is  «,  better  way. 

What  though  unmarked  the  happy  workman  toil, 
And  break  unthanked  of  man  the  stubborn  clod? 

It  is  enough,  for  sacred  is  the  soil, 
Dear  are  the  hills  of  God. 

Far  better  in  its  place  the  lowliest  bird 

Should  sing  aright  to  Him  the  lowliest  song. 

Than  that  a  Seraph  strayed  should  take  the  word 
And  sing  his  glory  wrong. 

Friend,  it  is  time  to  work.     I  say  to  thee, 
Thou  dost  all  earthly  good  by  much  excel : 

Thou  and  God's  blessing  are  enough  for  me: 
My  work,  my  work — farewell  I 


REQUIESCAT  IN  PACE. 

O  MY  heart,  my  heart  is  sick  awishing  and  awaiting : 
The  lad  took  up  his  knapsack,  he  went,  he  went 
his  way  ; 
And  I  looked  on  for  his  coming,  as  a  prisoner  through 
the  grating 
Looks  and  longs  and  longs  and  wishes  for  its  open- 
ing day. 

On  the  wild  purple  mountains,  all   alone  with  no 
other. 
The  strong  terrible  mountaine,  he  longed,  he  longed 
to  be; 


3 2  REQUTF.SCA  T  TN'  PA CE. 


And  he  stooped  to  kiss  his  father,  and  he  stooped  to 
kiss  Ills  mother. 
And  till  1  said  "  Adieu,  sweet  Sir,"  he  quite  forgot 
nje. 

He  wrote  of  their  white  raiment,  the  ghostly  capes 
that  screen  them, 
Of  the  storm  winds  that  beat  them,  their  thunder- 
rents  and  scars, 
And  the  paradise  of  purple,  and  the  golden  slopes 
at  ween  them. 
And  fields,  where  grow  God's  gentian  bells,  and 
Uis  crocus  stars. 

He  wrote  of  frail  gauzy  clouds,  that  drop  on  them  lika 
fleeces, 
And  make  green  their  fir  forests,  and  feed  their 
mosses  hoar ; 
Or  come  sailing  up  the  valleys,  and  get  wrecked  and 
go  to  pieces. 
Like  sloops  against  their  cruel  strength :  then  he 
wrote  no  more. 

O  the  silence  that  came  next,  the  patience  and  long 
aching ! 
They  never  said  so  much  as  *  He  was  a  dear  loved 
son  ;  " 
Not  the  father  to  the  mother  moaned,  that  dreary 
stillness  breaking  : 
"  Ah  !  wherefore  did  he  leave  us  so — this,  our  only 
one?" 
They   sat    within,    as   waiting,    until   the   neighborG 
prayed  them, 
At  Cromer,   by   the  sea-coast,   'twere   peace   and 
change  to  be  ; 
And  to  Cromer,  in  their  patience,  or  that  urgency  af- 
frayed  them, 
Or  because  the  tidings  turried,  they  came,  and  tooh 
me. 


It  was  three  months  and  over  since  the  dear  lad  had 
started  : 
On  the  green   downs  at  Cromer  I  sat  to   see  the 
view  ; 
On  an  open  space  of  herbage,  where  the  Hngand  fern 
had  parted, 
Betwixt  the  tall  white  lighthouse  towers,  the  old 
and  the  new. 

B^low  me  lay  the  wide  sea,  the  scarlet  sun  was  stoop- 
ing, 
And  he  dyed  the  waste  water,  as  with  a  scarlet 
dye  ; 

And  ho  dyed  the  lighthouse  towers  ;  every  bird  with 
white  wing  swoo{)ing 

Took  his  colors,  and  the  cliiTs  did,  and  the  yawning 
sky. 

Over  grass  came  that  strange  (lush,  and  over  Hngand 
heather, 
Over  flocks  of  slieep  and  lambs,  and  over  Cromer 
town  ; 
And  each  filmy  cloudlet  crossing  drifted  like  a  scarlet 
featlier 
Torn  from  the  f(jlded  wings  of  clouds,  while  he  set- 
tled down, 

When  I  looked,  I  dared  not  sigh: — In  the  light  ot 
God's  splendor, 
With  Ilis  daily  blue  and  gold,  who  am  I?  what 
am  I? 
But  that  passion   and  outpouring  seemed  an   awful 
sign  and  tcndor. 
Like   the   blood  of  the  Redeemer,  shown  on   earth 
and  sky. 

0   for  comfort,  O  the   waste   of   a    long  doubt    and 
trouble  I 
On  that  sultry  August  eve  trouble  had  made   mo 
meek : 

8 


34  REQ  UIESCA  T  IN  PA  CE. 

1   was   tired   of  my  sorrow — O   so   faint,    for   it  was 
double 
In  the  weight  of  its  oppression,  that  I  could   not 
speak  1 

And   a  little  comfort  grew,  while  the  dimmed  eyes 

were  feeding, 

And  the  dull  ears  with  murmur  of  waters  satisfied  ; 

JJut  a  dream  came  slowly  nigh  me,  all  my  thoughts 

and  fancy  leading 

Across  the  bounds  of  waking  life  to  tlie  other  side. 

And  1  dreamt  that  1  looked  out,  to  the  waste  waters 
turning, 
And  saw  the  flakes  of  scarlet  from  wave  to  wave 
tossed  on ; 
And  the  scarlet  mix  with  azure,  where  a  heap  of  gold 
lay  burning 
On  the  clear  remote  sea  reaches  ;  for  the  sun  was 
gone. 

Then  I  thought  a  far-off  shout  dropped  across  the 
still  water — 
A  question  as  I  took  it,  for  soon  an  answt-r  caju'^ 
From  the  tall  "white  ruined  lighthouse  :  "  If  it  be  the 
old  man's  daughter 
That  we  wot  of,"  ran  the  answer,   "  what  then — 
who's  to  blame  ?  " 

I  looked  up  at  the  lighthouse  all  roofless  and  storm- 
broken  : 
A  great  white  bird  sat  on  it,  with  neck  stretched  to 
sea  ; 
Unto  somewhat  which  was  sailing  in  a  skiff  tlu*  bird 
had  spoken. 
And  a   trembling  seized  my  spirit,  for   they  talked 
ul  me. 


REQ  U I  ESC  A  T  IN  PACE.  ZS 

J  was  the  old  man's  daughter,  the   bird  went  on  to 
name  him  ; 
*'  He  loved  to  count  the  starlings  as  he  sat  in  the 
sun  ; 
long  ago  he  served  with  Nelson,  and  his  story  did 
not  shame  him : 
Ay,  the  old  man  was  a  good  man — and  his  woik 
was  done." 

The  skiff  was  like  a  cresctent,  ghost  of  some  moon  de- 
parted, 
Frail,  white,  she  rocked  and  curtseyed  as  the  led 
wave  she  crossed, 
And  the  thing  within  sat  paddling,  and  the  crescent 
dipped  and  darted, 
Flying  on,  again  was  shouting,  but  the  words  wero 
lost. 

I  said,  "  That  thing  is  hooded  ;  I  could  hear  but  that 
floweth 
The  great  hood  below  its  mouth  :  "  then  the  bird 
made  reply, 
"  If  they  know  not,   more's  the  pity,  for  the  little 
shrewmouse  knoweth. 
And  the  kite  knows,  and  the  eagle,  and  the  glead 
and  pye." 

And  he  stopped  to  whet  his  beak  on  the  stones  of  the 
coping  ; 
And  when  once  more  the  shout  came,  in  querulous 
tones  he  spake, 
"  What  I  said  was  '  more's  the  pity  ;  '  if  tlie  heart  be 
long  past  hoping, 
Let  it  say  of  death,  '  1  know  it,'  or  duubt  on  and 
break. 
"  Men   must  die — one   dies   by   day,    and    near   Jiim 
moans  his  mother. 
They  dig  his  grave,  tread  it  down,  and  go  from  it 
full  loth: 


36  REQUIESCA  T  IN  PA CE. 

And   one   dies   about  the   midnight,    and   the  wind 
moans,  and  no  other, 
And  the  snow  gives  him  a  burial — and  God  lovea 
them  both. 

"  The  first  hath  no  advantage — it  shall  not  soothe  his 
slumber 
That  a  lock  of  his  brown  hair  his  father  aye  shall 
keep  ; 
For  the  last,  he  nothing  grudgeth,  it  shall  not  his 
quiet  cumber, 
That  in  a  golden  mesh  of  his  callow  eaglets  sleep. 

"  Men   must  die  when  all   is  said,  e'en  the  kite  and 
glead  know  it. 
And  the  lad's  father  knew  it,  and  the  lad,  the  lad 
too  ; 
It  was  never  kept  a  secret,  waters  bring  it  and  winds 
blow  it. 
And  he  met  it  on  the  mountain — why  then  make 
ado  ?  " 

With  that  he   spread   his   white  wings,    and   swept 
across  the  water, 
Lit  upon  the  hooded  head,  and  it  and  all  went 
down  ; 
And  they  laughed  as  they  went  under,  and  I  woke, 
"  the  old  man's  daughter," 
And  looked  across  the  slope  of  grass,  and  at  Cromer 
town. 

And   I  said,   "  Is  that  the  sky,   all    gray  and   silver 
suited?" 
And  I  thought,  "  Is  that  the  sea  that  lies  so  white 
and  wan  ? 
I  have  dreamed  as  I  remember  :  give  me  time — I  wae 
rejiuted 
Once   to    have   a  steady   courage — O,    1    fear   'tia 
gone  I  " 


REQUIESCA  T  IN  PA CE.  3 7 


And  I  said,  "  Is  this  my  heart?  if  it  be,  low  'tis  beat 
ing,  [brood  ; 

So  he  lies  on  the  mountain,  hard  by  the  eagles' 
I  have  had  a  dream  this  evening,  while  the  white  and 
gold  were  fleeing, 
But  I  need  not,  need  not  tell  it — where  would  be 
the  good  ? 

"  Where  would  be  the  good  to  them,  his  father  and 
his  mother  ? 
For  the  ghost  of  their  dead  hope   appeareth   to 
them  still. 
While  a  lonely  watch-fire  smoulders,  who  its  dying 
red  would  smother, 
That  gives  what  little  light  there  is  to  a  darksome 
hill?" 

I  rose  up,  I  made  no  moan,  I  did  not  cry  nor  falter, 

But  slowly  in  the  twilight  I  came  to  Cromer  town. 

What  can  wringing  of  the  hands  do  that  which  ia 

ordained  to  alter? 

He  had  climbed,  had  climbed   the  mountain,  he 

would  ne'er  come  down. 

But,  O  my  first,  O  my  best,  I  could  not  choose  but 
love  thee  I 
O,  to  be  a  wild  white  bird,  and  seek  thy  rocky  bed  1 
From  my  breast  I'd  yivo  the  burial,  pluck  the  down 
and  spread  above  thee  ; 
I  would  sit  and  sing  thy  requiem  on  the  mountain 
head. 

Fare  thee  well,  my  love  of  loves  I  would  I  had  died 
before  thee  !  [flow, 

O,  to  be  at  least  a  cloud,  that  near  thee  I  mi^jrlit 
Solemnly   approach   the  mountain,   weep  away  my 
being  o'er  thee. 
And  veil  thy  breast  with  iciclea,  and  thy  brow  with 
Bnow  I 


3B  SUPPER  AT  THE  MILL. 


SUPPER  AT  THE  MILL. 

Mother.  Well,  Frances. 

Frances.  Well,  good  mother,  how  are  you  ? 

31.  I'm    hearty,    lass,    but   warm  ;    the   weathoi's 
warm : 
I  think  'tis  mostly  warm  on  market  days. 
I  met  with  George  behind  the  mill :    said  he, 
'•'  Mother,  go  in  and  rest  awhile." 

F.  Ay,  do, 

And  stay  to  supper  ;  put  your  basket  down. 

M.  Why,  now,  it  is  not  heavy  ? 

F.  Willie,  man, 

Get  up  and  kiss  your  Granny.     Heavy,  no  i 
Some  call  good  churning  luck  ;  but,  luck  or  skill. 
Your  butter  mostly  comes  as  lirm  and  sweet 
As  If  'twas  Christmas.     So  you  sold  it  all  ? 

M.  All  but  this  pat  that  I  put  by  for  George  ; 
He  always  loved  my  butter. 

F.  That  he  did. 

M.  And  has  «Mur  speckled  hen  brought  off  her 
brood  ? 

F.  Not  yet ;  but  that  old  duck  I  told  you  of, 
She  hatched  eleven  out  of  twelve  to-day. 

Child.  And,  Granny,  they're  so  yellow. 

M.  Ah,  my  lad, 

Yellow  as  gold — yellow  as  Willie's  hair. 

C.  They're  all  mine,  Granny— father  says  they're 
mine. 

M.  To  think  of  that ! 

F.  Yes,  Granny,  only  think  1 

Why,  father  means  to  sell  them  when  they're  fat. 
And  put  the  money  in  the  savings  bank, 
And  all  against  our  Willie  goes  to  school: 
1-Jut  Wilhe  would  not  touch  them — no,  not  he  ; 


SUPPER  AT  THE  MILL.  39 

He  knows  that  father  would  be  angry  else. 

G.  But  I  want  one  to  play  with — O,  1  want 
A  little  yellow  duck  to  take  to  bed  ! 

M.  What  I  would  you  rob  the  poor  old  mother, 

then? 
F.  Now,  Granny,  if  you'll  hold  the  babe  awhile  ; 
'Tih  tiiue  1  took  up  Willie  to  his  crib. 

{Exit  FR4NCE3, 


\Mother  sings  to  the  infant.] 

Playing  on  the  virginals, 

Who  but  T  ?  Sae  glad,  sae  free, 
Binelling  for  all  cordials, 

The  green  mint  and  marjorie  ; 
Sot  among  the  budding  broom, 

Kingcup  and  dafTodilly, 
By  my  side  I  made  him  room  : 

O  love  my  Willie  I 

"  Like  me,  love  me,  girl  o'  gowd," 

Sang  he  to  my  niml)le  strain  ; 
Sweet  his  ruddy  lips  o'erflowed 

Till  my  heartstrings  rang  again  : 
By  the  broom,  the  bonny  broom, 

Kingcuf)  and  daffodilly, 
In  my  heart  I  made  him  room : 

O  love  my  Willie  ! 

'    Pipe  and  play,  dear  heart,"  sang  he, 

"  J  must  go,  yet  pipe  and  play  ; 
Soon  I'll  come  and  ask  of  thee 

For  an  answer  yea  or  nay  ;  " 
And  I  waited  till  the  Hocks 

Panted  in  yon  waters  stilly, 
And  the  corn  stood  in  the  ehocka : 

O  love  my  Willie  1 


40  SUPPER  A  T  THE  MILL. 


I  tliought  first  when  thou  didst  come 

i  would  wear  the  ring  for  thee. 
But  the  year  told  out  its  sum 

Ere  again  thou  sat'st  by  me  ; 
Thou  hadst  nought  to  ask  that  day 

By  kingcup  and  daffodilly  ; 
I  said  neither  yea  nor  nay : 

O  love  my  Willie  : 

Enter  George. 

Q.  Well,  mother,  'tis  a  fortnight  now,  or  more, 
Since  1  set  eyes  on  you. 

M,  Ay,  George,  my  dear, 

I  reckon  you've  been  busy  :  so  have  we. 

Q.  And  how  does  father  ? 

M.  He  giits  through  his  wo  \^ 

LJut  he  grows  stiff,  a  little  stitf,  my  dear  ; 
He's  not  so  young,  you  know,  by  twenty  years, 
i\s  I  am — not  so  young  by  twenty  years, 
And  I'm  past  sixty. 

Q.  Yet  he's  hale  and  stout, 

And  seems  to  take  a  pleasure  in  his  pipe  ; 
And  seems  to  take  a  pleasure  in  his  cows, 
And  a  pride,  too. 

M.  And  well  he  may,  my  dear. 

(?.  Give  me  tho  little  one,  he  tires  your  arm  : 
He's  such  a  kicking,  crowing,  wakeful  rogue, 
lie  almost  wears  our  lives  out  with  his  noise 
Just  at  day-dawning,  when  we  M'ish  to  sleep. 
What !  you  youn^'  villain,  would  you  clench  your  fist 
In  fatlier's  curls  ?  a  dusty  father,  sure, 
And  you're  as  clean  as  wax. 

Ay,  you  may  laugh  ; 
But  if  you  live  a  seven  years  more  or  so, 
These  hands  of  yours  will  all  be  brown  and  scratched 
With  climbing  a.'ter  nest-eggs.     They'll  go  down 
As  many  rat-holeo  as  are  round  the  mere  : 


SUPPER  AT  THE  MILL.  41 


And  you'll  love  mud,  all  manner  of  mud  and  dirt, 
As  your  father  did  afore  you,  and  you'll  wade 
After  young  water-birds  ;  and  you'll  get  bogged 
Setting  of  eel-traps,  and  you'll  spoil  your  clothes, 
And  come  home  torn  and  dripping  :  then,  you  know 
You'll  feel  the  stick — you'll  feel  the  stick,  my  lad  I 

Enter  Fraxces. 
F.  You  should  not  talk  so  to  the  blessed  babe — 


How  can  you,  George?  why,  he  may  be  in  heaven 
Before  the  time  you  tell  of. 

M.  Look  at  him  : 

80  earnest,  such  an  eager  pair  of  eyes  1 
He  thrives,  my  dear. 

F.  Yes,  that  he  does,  thank  God  ! 
My  children  are  all  strong. 

M.  'Tis  much  to  sav  : 

Sick  children  fret  their  mothers'  hearts  to  sureds, 
And  do  no  credit  to  their  keep  nor  care. 
Where  is  your  little  lass? 

F.  Your  daughter  came 

And  begged  her  of  us  for  a  week  or  so. 

M.  Well,  well,  she  might  be  wiser,  that  she  might. 
For  she  can  sit  at  ease  and  pay  her  way  ; 
A  sober  husband,  too — a  cheerful  man — 
Honest  as  ever  stepped,  and  fond  of  her  j 
Yet  she  is  never  easy,  never  glad. 
Because  she  has  not  children.     Well-a-day  ! 
if  she  could  know  how  hard  her  mother  worked. 
And  what  ado  I  had,  and  what  a  moil 
With  my  half-dozen  !     Children,  ay,  forsooth, 
Tliey  bring   their  own    love  with    them  when   they 

come, 
liut  if  they  come  not  there  is  peace  and  rest ; 
The  pretty  lambs  !  and  yet  she  cries  for  more : 
Why,  the  world's  full  of  them,  and  «o  is  heavuii — 
They  are  not  rare. 


42  SUrFKR  A  r  THE  MILL. 

Q.  IS'o.  mother,  not  at  all  ; 

But  Hannah  must  not  keep  our  Fanny  long — 
She  spoils  her. 

M.  Ah  !  folks  spoil  their  children  now  ; 

When  I  was  a  young  woman  'twas  not  so  ; 
W*^  made  our  children  fear  ns,  made  them  work, 
Kept  them  in  order. 

O.  Were  not  proud  of  them  — 

Eh,  mother  ? 

M.  I  set  store  by  mine,  'tis  true, 

But  then  I  had  good  cause. 

G.  My  lad,  d'ye  hear  ? 

Your  Granny  was  not  proud,  by  no  means  proud  1 
She  never  sj)oilt  your  father — no,  not  she, 
Nor  ever  made  him  sing  at  harvest-home. 
Nor  at  the  forge,  nor  at  the  baker's  shop, 
Nor  to  the  doctor  while  she  lay  abed 
Sick,  and  he  crept  upstairs  to  share  her  broth. 

M.  Well,  well,  you  were  my  youngest,  and.  what's 
more, 
Tour  father  loved  to  hear  you  sing — he  did, 
Although,  good  man,  he  could  not  tell  one  tune 
From  the  other. 

F.  No  he  got  his  voice  from  you  : 

Do  use  it,  George,  and  send  the  child  to  sleep. 

Q.  What  must  I  sint:  ? 

F.    The  Ballad  of  the  man 
That  is  so  shy  he  cannot  speak  his  mind. 

Q.  Ay,  of  the  purple  grapes  and  crimson  leaves  ; 
But,  mother,  put  your  shawl  and  bonnet  off. 
And,  Frances,  lass,  I  brought  some  cresses  in  : 
Juf<r  wash  them,  toast  the  bacon,  break  some  eggs. 
And  let  us  lo  supper  shortly. 

My  neighbor  White — we  met  to-day — 
Be  always  had  a  cheerful  way, 


SUPPER  A  T  THE  MILL.  43 


As  if  he  breathed  at  ease  ; 
My  neighbor  White  lives  down  the  glade, 
And  I  live  higher,  in  the  shade 

Of  my  old  walnut-trees. 

Bo  many  lads  and  lasses  small, 

To  feed  them  all,  to  clothe  them  all, 

Must  surely  tax  his  wit ; 
I  see  his  thatch  when  I  look  out, 
liis  branching  roses  creep  about. 

And  vines  half  smother  it. 

There  white-haired  urchins  climb  his  eaves, 
And  little  watch-fires  heap  with  leaves, 

And  milky  filberts  hoard; 
And  there  his  oldest  daughter  stands 
With  downcast  eyes  and  skilful  hands 

Before  her  ironing-board. 

She  comforts  all  her  mother's  days, 
And  with  her  sweet  obedient  ways 

She  makes  her  labor  light 
So  sweet  to  hear,  so  fair  to  see  I 
O,  she  is  much  too  good  for  me, 

That  lovely  Lettice  White  I 

'Tis  hard  to  feel  one's  self  a  fool  ! 
With  that  same  lass  I  went  to  school— 

I  then  was  great  and  wise  ; 
She  read  upon  an  easier  book, 
And  1 — 1  never  cared  to  look 

Into  1131  soy  blue  eyes. 

And  now  I  know  they  must  be  there, 
Sweet  eyes,  behind  those  lashes  fair 

That  will  not  raise  their  rim  : 
If  maids  be  shy,  he  cures  who  can  ; 
But  if  a  man  bo  shy — a  man — 

Why  then,  the  worse  for  hiiu  t 


44  SUPPER  AT  THE  MILL. 


My  mother  cries,  "  For  such  a  lad 
A  wife  is  easy  to  be  had 

And  always  to  be  found  ; 
A  finer  scholar  scarce  can  be, 
And  for  a  foot  and  leg,"  says  she, 
"  He  beats  the  country  round  ! 

"  My  handsome  boy  must  stoop  his  head 
To  clear  her  door  whom  he  would  wed." 

Weak  praise,  but  fondly  sung  I 
"  O  mother!  scholars  sometimes  fail — 
And  what  can  foot  and  leg  avail 

To  him  that  wants  a  tongue  ?  " 

When  by  her  ironing-board  I  sit, 
Her  little  sisters  round  me  flit, 

And  bring  me  forth  their  store  ; 
Dark  cluster  grapes  of  dusty-blue, 
And  small  sweet  apples,  bright  of  hue 

And  crimson  to  the  core. 

But  she  abideth  silent,  fair  ; 
All  shaded  by  her  flaxen  hair 

The  blushes  come  and  go  ; 
I  look,  and  I  no  more  can  speak 
Than  the  red  sun  that  on  her  cheek 

Smiles  as  he  lieth  low. 

Sometimes  the  roses  by  the  latch, 

Or  scarlet  vine-leaves  from  her  thatch- 
Come  sailing  down  like  birds  ; 

When  from  their  drifts  her  board  1  clear. 

She  thanks  me,  but  1  scarce  can  hear 
The  shyly  uttered  words. 

Oft  have  I  wooed  sweet  Lettice  White 
i*v  daylight  and  by  candlelight 


SUFFER  AT  THE  MILL.  45 

When  we  two  were  apart. 
Some  better  day  come  on  apace, 
And  let  me  tell  her  face  to  face, 

"  Maiden,  thou  hast  my  heart." 

now  gently  rock  yon  poplars  high 
Against  the  reach  of  primrose  sky 

With  heaven's  pale  candles  stored  i 
She  sees  them  all,  sweet  Lettice  White  ; 
I'll  ev'n  go  sit  again  to-night 

Beside  her  ironing-board ! 

Why.  you  j'oung  rascal  !  who  would  think  it,  now? 
No  sooner  do  1  stop  than  you  look  up. 
What  would  you  have  your  poor  old  father  do  ? 
"Twas  a  brave  song,  long-winded,  and  not  loud. 

M.  He  heard  the  bacon  sputter  on  the  fork, 
And  heard  his  mother's  step  across  the  floor. 
Where  did  you  get  that  song? — 'tis  new  to  me. 

Q.  I  bought  it  of  a  pedler. 

M.  Did  you  so  ? 

Wt  11,  you  were  always  for  the  love-songs,  George. 

F.  My  dear,  just  lay  his  head  upon  your  arm, 
And  if  you'll  pace  and  sing  two  minutes  more 
lie  needs  must  sleei) — his  eyes  are  full  of  sleep. 

Q.  Do  you  sing,  mother. 

F.  Ay,  good  mother,  do  ; 
'Tis  long  since  we  have  heard  yon. 

M.  Like  enough  ; 

I'm  an  old  woman,  and  the  girls  and  lads 
I  used  to  sing  to  sleep  e'ertop  me  now. 
What  should  I  sing  for? 

G.  Why,  to  pleasure  us. 
Sine  in  the  chimney  corner,  where  you  sit 
And  I'll  pace  gently  with  the  little  one. 


4€>  SUPPER  A  T  THE  MILL. 


[Mother  sings.] 

When  sparrows  build,  and  the  leaves  break  forth, 

My  old  sorrow  wakes  and  cries, 
For  I  know  there  is  dawn  in  the  far,  far  north, 

And  a  scarlet  sun  doth  rise  ; 
Like  a  scarlet  fleece  the  snow-field  spreads, 

And  the  icy  founts  run  free. 
And  the  bergs  begin  to  bow  their  heads, 

And   plunge,  and  sail  in  the  sea. 

O  my  lost  love,  and  my  own,  own  love, 

And  my  love  that  loved  me  so  I 
Is  there  never  a  chink  in  the  world  above 

Where  they  listen  for  words  from  below  ? 
Nay,  I  spoke  once,  and  I  grieved  thee  sore, 

1  remember  all  that  I  said. 
And  now  thou  wilt  hear  me  no  more — no  more 

Till  the  sea  gives  up  her  dead. 

Thou  didst  set  thy  foot  on  the  ship,  and  sail 

To  the  ice-fields  and  the  snow  ; 
Thou  wert  sad,  for  thy  love  did  naught  avail, 

And  the  end  1  could  not  know  ; 
How  could  I  tell  I  should  love  thee  to-day, 

Whom  that  day  I  held  not  dear  ? 
How  could  I  know  1  should  love  thee  away 

Wheu  I  did  not  love  thee  anear? 

We  shall  walk  no  more  through  the  sodden  plain 

With  the  faded  bents  o'erspread, 
Wf  shall  stand  no  more  by  the  seething  main 

While  the  dark  wrack  drives  o'erhead  ; 
We  shall  part  no  more  in  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

Where  thy  last  farewell  was  said  : 
But  perhaps  1  shall  meet  thee  and  know  thee  a;-:ain 

Wheii  the  sea  gives  ujj  her  dead. 


SCHOLAR  AN-D  CARPENTER.  47 


F.  Asleep  at  last,  and  time  he  was,  indeed. 
Turn  back  the  cradle-quilt,  and  lay  him  in  ; 
And,  mother,  will  you  please  to  draw  your  chair  r- 
The  supper's  ready. 


SCHOLAR  AND  CARPENTER. 

While  ripening  corn  grew  thick  and  deep, 
And  here  and  there  men  stood  to  reap. 
One  morn  I  put  ray  heart  to  sleep, 

And  to  the  hines  I  took  my  way. 
The  goldfinch  on  a  thistle-head 
Stood  scattering  seedlets  while  she  fed  ; 
The  wrens  their  pretty  gossip  spict^J, 

Or  joined  a  random  roundelay. 

On  hanging  cobwebs  shone  the  dew, 
And  thick  the  wayside  clovers  grew  ; 
The  feeding  bee  had  much  to  do, 

So  fast  did  honey-drops  exude  : 
She  sucked  and  murmured,  and  was  gouo. 
And  lit  on  other  blooms  anon, 
The  while  I  learned  a  lesson  on 

The  source  and  sense  of  quietude. 

For  sheep-bells  chiming  from  a  wold, 
Or  bleat  of  lamb  within  its  fold, 
Or  cooing  of  love-legends  old 

To  dove-wives  make  not  (juiet  less  ; 
Ecstatic  chirp  of  winged  thing. 
Or  bubbling  of  tlie  water-spring, 
Are  sounds  that  more  than  silence  bring 

Itself  and  its  delightsomeness. 

While  thus  I  went  to  gladn^ss-fain, 
3  had  but  walked  a  n.llc  or  twain 
Dafore  luy  heart  woke  up  iij^aiu. 


48  SCHOLAR  AND  CARPENTER. 

As  dreaming  she  had  slept  too  late  ; 
The  morning  freshness  that  she  viewed 
With  her  own  meanings  she  endued, 
And  touched  with  her  solicitude 

The  natures  she  did  meditate. 

*'  If  quiet  is,  for  it  I  wait  j 

To  it,  ah!  let  me  wed  my  fate, 

And,  like  a  sad  wife,  supplicate 

My  roving  lord  no  more  to  flee  j 
If  leisure  is — but,  ah !  'tis  not — 
'Tis  long  past  praying  for,  God  wot 
The  fashion  of  it  men  forgot,. 

About  the  age  of  chivalry. 

"  Sweet  is  the  leisure  of  the  bird  ; 
She  craves  no  time  for  work  deferred  ; 
ller  wings  are  not  to  aching  stirred 

Providing  for  her  helpless  ones. 
Pair  is  the  leisure  of  the  wheat  ; 
All  night  the  damps  about  it  fleet  • 
All  daj'  it  basketh  in  the  heat, 

And  grows,  and  whispers  orisons, 

"  (irand  is  the  leisure  of  the  earth  ; 
Slie  gives  her  happy  myriads  birth, 
And  after  h.arvest  fears  not  dearth, 

But  goes  to  sleep  in  snow-wreaths  dim. 
Dread  is  the  leisure  up  above 
Tlie  while  He  sits  whoso  name  is  Love, 
And  waits,  as  Noah  did,  for  the  dove, 

To  wJt  if  she  would  fly  to  him. 

"  He  waits  for  us,  while,  houseless  things, 
We  beat  about  with  bruised  wings 
On  the  dark  floods  and  water-springs. 
The  ruined  world,  the  desolate  sea  ; 
With  open  windows  from  the  prime 
All  ni{iht,  all  day.  He  waits  subliuie. 


SCHOLAR  AND  CARPENTER.  <9 

Until  the  fulness  of  the  time 
Decreed  from  His  eternity. 

"  Where  is  OUR  leisure? — Give  us  rest. 

Where  is  the  quiet  we  possessed? 

Wf  must  have  had  it  once — were  blest 

With  peace  whose  phantoms  yet  entice. 
Sorely  the  mother  of  mankind 
Li)ii^:ed  for  the  garden  left  behind  ; 
For  we  still  prove  some  yearnings  Mind 

Inherited  from  Paradise." 

••  Hold,  heart!  "  I  cried  ;   "  for  trouble  sleeps  ; 
1  hear  no  sound  of  aught  that  weeps  ; 
I  will  not  look  into  thy  deeps — 

I  am  afraid,  1  am  afraid  ! " 
"  Afraid  ! "  she  saith  ;  "  and  yet  'tis  true 
Tluit  what  man  dreads  he  still  should  view — 
Should  do  the  thing  he  fears  to  do. 

And  storm  the  ghosts  in  ambuscade." 

"  What  good  ?  "  I  sigh.     "  Was  reast)n  meant 
To  straighten  branches  that  are  bent, 
Or  soothe  an  ancient  discontent, 

The  instinct  of  a  race  dethroned  ? 
Ah  !  doubly  should  that  instinct  go 

Must  the  four  rivers  cease  to  flow, 
ITor  yield  those  rumors  sweet  and  low 

Wherewith  man's  life  is  undertoned." 

"Yet  liad  I  but  the  i^ast,"  she  cries, 
"  And  it  was  lost,  I  would  arise 
And  <!omfort  me  some  other  wise. 

Hut  more  than  loss  about  me  clings: 
1  am  l)ut  restless  witli  my  race  ; 
The   whisj)t>rs  from  a  heavetdy  place, 
Once  droppetl  among  us,  seem  to  chase 

Keet  with  their  prophet-visitings. 


50  SCI  10 LAN  AND  CAKl' ENTER ■ 

"  The  race  is  like  a  child,  as  yet 
Top  youDp;  for  all  things  to  be  set 
Plainly  before  hijn  with  no  let 

Ur  liiiiflrance  meet  for  his  degree  ; 
Bnt  ne'ertheless  by  much  too  old 
Ki^t  to  perceive  that  men  Avitlihold 
Xili>re  of  the  story  than  is  told, 

And  so  infer  a  mystery. 

"  if  the  Celestials  daily  fly 
With  messages  on  missions  high, 
And  float,  our  masts  and  turrets  nigh, 

Conversing  on  Heaven's  great  intents  ; 
What  wonder  hints  of  coming  things, 
Whereto  man's  hope  and  yearning  cling-i. 
Should  drop  like  feathers  from  their  -.vinga 

And  give  us  vague  preseiitimenTs '^ 

**  And  as  the  waxing  moon  can  ta. 

The  tidal  waters  in  her  wake 

And  lead  tliein  round  and  round  to  br.^ak 

Obedient  to  her  drawings  ui^^  ; 
So  may  the  movements  of  his  minu, 
The  first  Great  Father  of  mankind, 
Affect  with  answering  movements  blind. 

And  draw  the  souls  that  breathe  by  Him 

*•  We  had  a  message  long  ago 
That  like  a  river  peace  should  flow. 
And  Eden  bloom  again  below. 

We  heard,  and  we  began  to  wait ; 
Full  soon  that  message  men  forgot ; 
Yet  waiting  is  their  destined  lot, 
And  waiting  for  they  know  not  what 

They  strive  with  yearnings  passionate. 

"  Regret  and  faith  alike  enchain  ; 
There  was  a  loss,  there  comes  a  gain  : 
"Wtt  fctand  at  fault  betwijtt  tlie  IwaJii, 


SCHOLAR  AA^D  CARPEl^TTER.  51 


And  that  is  veiled  for  which  we  pant. 
Our  Uves  are  short,  our  ten  times  seven  ; 
We  thiuli  the  councils  held  in  heaven 
Sit  long,  ere  yet  that  blissful  leaven 

Work  peace  amongst  the  militant. 

•'  Then  we  blame  God  that  Sin  should  be 
Adam  began  it  at  the  tree, 
'  The  woman  whom  Thou  gavest  me  ;  ' 
And  we  adopt  his  dark  device. 

0  long  Thou  tarriestl  come  and  reign, 
And  biing  forgiveness  in  Thy  train, 
And  give  us  in  our  hands  again 

The  apples  of  Thy  Paradise." 

"  Far-seeing  heart  I    if  that  be  all, 
The  happy  things  that  did  not  fall," 

1  sighed,  "  from  every  coppice  call 
They  never  from  that  garden  went. 

Behold  their  joy,  so  comfort  thoe, 
Behold  the  blossom  and  the  bee, 
For  they  are  yet  as  good  and  free 
As  when  poor  Eve  was  innocent. 

*'  But  reason  thus  :   '  If  we  sank  low. 
If  the  lost  garden  we  forego. 
Each  in  his  day,  nor  ever  know 

But  in  bur  poet  souls  its  face  ; 
Yet  we  may  rise  until  we  reach 
A  height  untold  of  in  its  speech, 
A  lesson  that  it  could  not  teach 

Learn  in  this  darker  dwelling  place. 

'*  And  reason  on  :  '  We  take  the  spoil  ; 
Loss  Uiade  us  poets,  and  the  soil 
Taught  us  great  patience  in  o\w  toil, 

And  life  is  kin  to  Cfod  tlirough  death. 
Christ  were  not  (hie  with  us  but  so, 
And  if  bereft  of  Him  we  go  ; 


S'i  SCHOLAR  AND  CARPENTEK. 

Dearer  the  heavenly  mansions  grow, 
His  home,  to  man  that  wanderetli.' 

"  Content  thee  so,  and  ease  thy  smart." 
With  that  she  slept  again,  my  heart, 
And  1  admired  and  took  my  part 

With  crowds  of  happy  things  the  while  : 
With  open  velvet  butterflies 
That  swung  and  spread  their  peacock  eyes, 
As  if  they  cared  no  more  to  rise 

From  off  their  beds  of  camomile. 

The  blackcaps  in  an  orchard  met, 
Praising  the  berries  while  they  ate  : 
Tiie  finch  that  flew  her  beak  to  whet 

Before  slie  joined  them  on  the  tree  ; 
The  water  mouse  among  the  reeds — 
His  l)right  eyes  glancing  black  as  beads, 
So  happy  with  a  bunch  of  seeds — 

1  felt  their  gladness  heartily. 

But  I  came  on,  I  smelt  the  hay. 
And  up  the  hills  I  took  my  way, 
And  down  them  still  made  hoUday, 

And  walked,  and  wearied  not  a  whit ; 
But  ever  with  the  lane  I  went 
Until  it  dropped  with  steep  descent, 
Cut  deep  into  the  rock,  a  tent 

Of  maple  branches  roofing  it. 

A  down  the  rock  small  runlets  wept, 
And  reckless  ivies  leaned  and  crept, 
And  little  spots  of  sunshine  slept 

On  its  brown  steeps  and  made  them  fair  ; 
And  broader  beams  athwart  it  shot. 
Where  martins  cheei)ed  in  many  a  knot, 
For  they  had  ta'en  a  sandy  plot 

And  scooped  another  Petra  there. 


SCHOLAR  AND  CARPENTER.  53 

And  deeper  down,  hemmed  iu  and  hid 
From  upper  Hght  and  life  amid 
The  swallows  gossiping,  I  thrid 

Its  mazes,  till  the  dipping  land 
Sank  to  the  level  of  my  lane  : 
That  was  the  last  hill  of  the  chain, 
And  fair  below  I  saw  the  plain 

That  seemed  cold  cheer  to  rejirimand. 

Half-drowned  in  sleepy  peace  it  lay, 
As  satiate  with  the  boundless  play 
Of  sunshine  on  its  gi-een  array. 

And  clear-cut  hills  of  gloomy  blue 
To  keep  it  safe  rose  up  behind, 
As  with  a  charmed  ring  to  bind 
The  grassy  sea,  where  clouds  might  find 

A  place  to  bring  their  shadows  to. 

I  said,  and  blest  that  pastoral  grace, 
"How  sweet  thou  art,  thou  sunny  place! 
Thy  God  approves  thy  smiling  face  :  " 

But  straight  my  heart  put  in  her  word  ; 
She  said,  "  Albeit  thy  face  I  bless, 
There  have  been  times,  sweet  wildernosH. 
When  I  have  wished  to  love  tlieo  less, 

Such  i)angs  thy  smile  administered." 

But,  lo  !   I  reached  a  field  of  wheat, 
And  by  its  gate  full  clear  and  sweet 
A  workman  sang,  while  at  his  feet 

Played  a  young  child,  all  life  and  stir — 
A  three  years'  child,  Avith  rosy  lip, 
Who  in  the  song  had  partnership. 
Made  happj'  with  each  falling  chip 

Dropi)ed  by  the  busy  carpenter. 

This,  reared  a  new  gate  for  the  old. 
And  loud  the  tuneful  measure  rolled, 
But  stopped  us  I  came  up  to  hold 


S^  SCHOLAR  AND  CARPENTER. 

Some  kindly  talk  of  passing  things. 
Brave  were  his  eyes,  and  frank  his  ruiei)  ; 
Of  all  men's  faces,  calm  or  keen, 
A  better  1  have  never  seen 

In  all  my  lonely  wanderings. 

And  how  it  was  I  scarce  can  tell, 
We  seemed  to  please  each  other  well  ^ 
1  lingered  till  a  noonday  bell 

Had  sounded,  and  his  task  was  don«. 
An  oak  had  screened  us  from  the  lieat  : 
And  'neath  it  in  the  standing  wheat, 
A  cradle  and  a  fair  retreat, 

Full  sweetly  slept  the  little  one. 

The  workman  rested  from  his  stroke, 
And  manly  were  the  words  he  spoke, 
Until  the  smiling  babe  awoke 

And  prayed  to  him  for  milk  and  food. 
Then  to  a  runlet  forth  he  went, 
And  brought  a  wallet  from  the  bent. 
And  bade  me  to  the  meal,  intent 

1  should  not  quit  his  neighborhood. 

"  For  here,"  «aid  he,  "  are  bread  and  beer 
And  meat  enough  to  make  good  cheer  i 
Sir,  eat  with  me,  and  have  no  fear, 

For  none  upon  my  work  depend. 
Saving  this  cliild  ;   and  I  may  say 
That  1  am  rich,  for  every  day 
I  put  by  somewhat ;  therefore  stay, 

And  to  such  eating  condescend." 

We  ate.     The  child — child  fair  to  see — 
Began  to  cling  about  his  knee, 
And  he  down  leaning  fatherly 

Kec(!ived  some  softly-prattled  pra^  or  ; 
Ue  smiled  as  if  to  list  were  l)alm. 
And  with  liis  labor-hardened  paiia 


SCHOLAR  A  Am  CARPE/VTER.  S5 


Pushed  from  the  baby-forehead  cahu 
Tliose  .sliinir.g  locks  that  clustered  there^ 

The  rosy  mouth  made  fresh  essay — 

"  O  would  he  sing  or  would  lie  play  ?" 

I  looked,  my  thouj-iht  would  make  its  way- 

"  Fair  is  your  child  of  face  and  huib, 
The  round  blue  eyes  full  sweetly  shine." 
He  answered  me  with  glance  benign — 
'*  Ay,  Sir ;  but  he  is  none  of  mine, 

Although  1  set  great  store  by  him." 

With  that,  as  if  his  heart  \vas  fain 
To  open — nathless  not  complain — 
He  let  my  quiet  questions  gain 

His  story  :  "  Not  of  kin  to  me," 
Repeating;  "  but  asleeji,  awake, 
For  worse,  for  better,  him  I  take, 
To  cherish  for  my  dead  wife's  sakej, 

And  count  him  as  her  legacy. 

"  1  married  with  the  sweetest  lass 
That  ever  stepped  on  meadow  grass  ; 
That  ever  at  her  looking-glass 

Some  pleasure  took,  some  natural  care; 
That  ever  swept  a  cottage  floor 
And  worked  all  day,  nor  e'er  gave  o'er 
Till  eve,  then  watched  beside  the  door 

Till  her  good  man  should  meet  her  thero. 

"  But  1  lost  all  in  its  fresh  prime ; 
My  wife  fell  ill  before  her  time — 
Juist  as  the  bells  began  to  chime 

One  Sunday  morn.     By  neAt  day's  light 
Her  little  babe  was  born  and  dead, 
And  she,  unconscious  what  she  said, 
With  feeble  hands  about  her  spread, 

Sought  it  with  yearnings  inlinite. 


56  SCHOLAR  AND  CARPENTHH. 

"  With  mother-longing  still  beguiled, 
And  lost  in  fever-fancies  wild, 
She  piteously  bemoaned  her  child 

That  we  had  stolen,  she  said,  away. 
And  ten  sad  daj'^s  she  sighed  to  rae, 
'  I  cannot  rest  until  I  see 
My  pretty  one  I     1  think  that  he 

Smiled  in  my  face  but  yesterday.' 

"  Then  she  would  change,  and  faintly  try 

To  sing  some  tender  lullaby  ; 

And  '  Ah  ! '  would  moan,  '  if  I  should  die, 

Who,  sweetest  babe,  would  cherish  thee?' 
Then  weep,   '  My  pretty  boy  is  grown  ; 
With  tender  feet  on  the  cold  stone 
]l'  -stands,  for  he  can  stand  alone, 

And  no  one  leads  him  motherly.' 

"  Then  she  with  dying  movements  slow 
Woiild  seem  to  knit,  or  seem  to  sew  : 
'His  feet  are  bare,  he  must  not  go 

Unshod  :  '  and  as  her  death  drew  on, 
*  O  little  baby,'  she  Avouid  sigh  ; 
'  My  little  child,  I  cannot  die 
Till  I  have  you  to  slumber  nigh 

You,  you  to  set  mine  eyes  upon.' 

"  When  she  spake  thus,  and  moaning  lay, 
They  said,  '  She  cannot  pass  away. 
So  sore  she  longs  :  '  and  as  the  day 

Broke  on  the  hills,  I  left  her  side. 
Mourning  along  this  lane  I  went : 
Some  travelling  folk  liad  pitched  their  tent 
\]\)  yonder  :  there  a  woman,  bent 

With  age,  sat  meanly  canopied. 

*'  A  twelvemonths'  child  was  at  her  side  : 
'  Whose  infant  may  that  be  ?  '     1  cried. 
'  His  that  Avill  own  liiii",'  she  re{)lied  ,' 
'  His  motber'fc)  dead,  no  worse  uouui  be,' 


SCHOLAR  AND  CAKFENTEK.  57 


*  Sines  you  can  give — or  else  1  erred — 
See,  you  are  taken  at  your  word,' 
Quoth  I  ;  '  That  child  is  mine  ;  I  heard, 
And  own  him  I     Rise,  and  give  him  me.' 

"  She  arose  amazed,  but  cursed  me  too  ; 
She  could  not  hold  such  luck  for  true. 
But  gave  him  soon  with  small  ado. 

I  laid  him  by  my  Lucy's  side: 
Close  to  !ier  face  that  baby  crept. 
And  stroked  it,  and  the  sweet  soul  wept ; 
Then,  while  upon  her  arm  he  slept, 

She  passed,  for  she  was  satisfied. 

*'  1  loved  her  well,  I  wept  her  sore, 
And  when  her  funeral  left  my  door 
1  tiiought  that  I  should  never  more 

Feel  any  pleasure  near  me  glow  \ 
But  I  have  learned   though  this  I  had, 
'Tis  sometimes  natural  to  be  glad, 
And  no  man  can  be  always  sad 

Unless  he  wills  to  have  it  so. 

"Oh,  1  had  heavy  nights  at  first. 
And  daily  wakening  was  the  worst  : 
For  then  my  grief  arose,  and  burst 

Like  something  fresh  upon  my  head  ; 
Yet  when  less  keen  it  seemed  to  grow, 
I  was  not  pleased — I  wished  to  go 
Mourning  adown  this  vale  of  woe. 

For  all  my  life  uncomforted. 

"  I  grudged  myself  the  lightsome  air. 
That  makes  man  cheerful  unaware  ; 
When  comfort  came,  I  did  not  care 

To  take  it  in,  to  feel  it  stir  ; 
And  yet  God  took  with  nie  His  plan, 
And  now  for  my  ay)pointed  span 
I  think  I  am  a  happier  man 

For  having  wed  and  wept  for  her 


58  THE  STAR'S  MONUMEN'T. 


"  Because  no  natural  tie  remains, 

On  this  small  thing  I  spend  my  gains  ; 

God  makes  me  love  him  for  my  jjains. 

And  binds  me  so  to  wholesome  caft'  ; 
I  would  not  lose  from  my  past  life 
That  liappy  year,  that  liapjjy  wife  I 
Yet  now  I  wage  no  useless  sti^ife 

With  feelings  bhthe  and  debonair. 

"  I  have  the  courage  to  be  gay, 
Although  she  lieth  lapped  away 
Under  the  daisies,  for  1  say, 

'  Thou  wouldst  bo  glad  if  thou  cotildst  see 
My  constant  thought  makes  manilesc 
I  have  not  what  I  love  the  best. 
But  I  must  thank  God  for  the  rest 

While  I  hold  heaven  a  verity." 

He  rose  ;  upon  liis  shoulder  set 

The  child,  and  while  with  vague  re^^r-1 

We  parted,  pleased  that  we  had  met, 

My  heart  did  with  herself  confer  ; 
With  wholesome  shame  she  did  repent 
Her  reasonings  idly  eloquent. 
And  sr.id,  "  I  might  be  more  content* 

But  God  go  with  the  carpenter." 


THE  STAR'S  MONUMENT 

IN  THIC  CONCLUDING  PART  OF  A  DlSUOUltbK  UN   VA  MH. 

{Hp  thinks.] 
\e  there  be  memory  in  the  world  to  come, 

If  thought  recjir  to  soMK  THINGS  silenced  here, 
Then  shall  the  deep  heart  be  no  longer  (iumb, 

iiuL  IWid  expression  in  that  happier  sphere  j 


THE  STAR'S  MONUMENT.  59 


It  shall  not  be  denied  tbeir  utmost  sum 

Of  love,  to  speak  witliout  or  fault  or  fear, 
But  utter  to  the  harp  with  changes  sweet 
Words  that,  forbidden  still,  then  heaven  were  incora- 
plete. 

\Hespeaks.\ 

Now  let  us  talk  about  the  ancient  days, 

And  things  which  happened  long  before  our  birth  : 
It  is  a  pity  to  lament  that  praise 

Should  be  no  shadow  in  the  train  of  worth. 
What  is  it.  Madam,  that  your  lieart  dismays  ? 

Why  niurmur  at  the  course  of  this  vast  earth  ? 
Think  rather  of  the  work  than  of  the  praise  ; 
Come,  we  will  talk  about  the  ancient  days. 

There  was  a  Poet,  Madam,  once  (said  he)  : 

I  will  relate  his  story  to  you  now, 
Whilf*  through  the  branches  of  this  ap[)le-tree 

Some  spots  of  sunshine  llicker  on  your  brow  ; 
While  every  flower  hath  on  its'  breast  a  bee, 

And  every  bird  in  stirring  doth  endow 
The  grass  with  falling  blooms  that  smoothly  glide 
As  ships  druj)  down  a  river  with  the  tide. 

F\)r  telling  of  his  tale  no  fitter  place 
Than  this  old  orchard,  sloping  to  the  west ; 

Through  its  pink  dome  of  blossom  I  can  trace 
Some  overlying  a/.ure  ;  for  the  rest, 

Tliese  flowery  branches  round  us  interlace; 
The  ground  is  hollowed  like  a  mossy  nest: 

Who  talks  of  fame  while  the  religious  spring 

OlTers  the  incense  of  her  blossoming? 

There  was  a  Poet,  Madam,  once  (said  he), 

Who,  while  lie  walked  at  sim(k)\vn  in  a  lane. 

Took  to  his  heart  the  hope  that  destiny 
liad  siuglt'd  liim  this  guerdon  to  ubtaiu. 


6o  THE  STAR'S  MONUMENT. 

That  by  the  power  of  his  sweet  minstrelsy 

Some  hearts  for  truth  and  goodness  he  should  gain, 
And  charm  some  grovellers  to  uplift  their  eyes 
And  suddenly  wax  conscious  of  the  skies. 

"  Master,  good  e'en  to  ye  !  "  a  woodman  said, 

Who  the  low  hedge  was  trimming  with  his  shears. 

"  This  hour  is  fine" — the  Poet  bowed  his  head. 

"  More  fine,"  he  thought,  "  O  friend  1  to  me  appears 

The  sunset  than  to  you  ;  finer  the  spread 

Of  orange  lustre  through  these  aziire  spheres, 

Where  little  clouds  lie  still,  like  flocks  of  sheep. 

Or  vessels  sailing  in  God's  other  deep. 

*  O  finer  far  !     What  work  so  high  as  mine, 
Interpreter  betwixt  the  world  and  man, 

Nature's  ungathered  pearls  to  set  and  shrine, 
The  mystery  she  wraps  her  in  to  scan  ; 

Ller  unsyllabic  voices  to  combine, 
And  serve  her  with  such  love  as  poets  can  ; 

With  mortal  words,  her  chant  of  praise  to  V)inrl 

Then  die,  and  leave  the  i)oem  to  mankind  ? 

"  O  fair,  O  fine,  O  lot  to  be  desired  1 

Early  and  late  my  heart  appeals  to  me. 

And  says,  '  O  work,  O  will — Thou  man,  be  firxl 
To  earn  this  lot,' — she  says,  '  I  would  nui  ue 

A  worker  for  mine  own  bread,  or  one  hired 
For  mine  OWN  profit.     O,  1  would  be  free 

To  w(^rk  for  others  \    love  so  earned  of  them 

Should  be  my  wages  and  my  diadem. 

"  '  Tlien  when  I  died  I  should  not  fall,'  says  sh'  , 
'  Like  drooping  llowers  that  no  man  noticeth, 
iiut  like  a  great  branch  of  some  stately  tree 

Rent  in  a  tempest,  and  flung  down  to  death. 
Thick  with  green  leafage — so  that  i  iteously 

riach  passer  by  that  ruin  shuddereth, 


THE  STAR'S  MONUMENT.  6l 


And  8aith.  The  gap  this  branch  hath  left  is  wide ; 
The  loss  thereof  can  never  be  supplied. '  " 

But,  Madam,  while  the  Poet  pondered  so. 
Toward  the  leafy  hedge  he  turned  his  eye, 

And  saw  two  slender  branches  that  did  grow, 
And  from  it  rising  spring  and  (lourish  high  ; 

Their  tops  were  twined  together  fast,  and,  lo, 
Their  shadow  crossed  the  path  as  he  went  by — 

The  shadow  of  a  wild  rose  and  a  briar, 

And  it  was  shaped  in  semblance  like  a  lyre. 

In  sooth,  a  lyre !  and  as  the  soft  air  played, 
Those  bratiches  stirred,  but  did  not  disunite. 

**  O  emblem  meet  for  me  !  "  the  Poet  said  ; 
"  Ay,  I  accept  and  own  thee  iov  u\y  rigiit  ; 

Th :■  shadowy  lyre  across  my  feet  is  laid, 

Distinct  though  frail,  and  clear  with  crimson  light: 

Fast  is  it  twined  to  bear  the  windy  strain. 

And,  supple,  it  will  bend  and  rise  again. 

"This  lyre  is  cast  across  the  dusty  way, 
The  common  path  that  common  men  pursue  ; 

I  crave  like  blessing  for  my  shadowy  lay, 
Life's  trodden  paths  with  beauty  to  r«'new, 

And  cheer  the  eve  of  many  a  toil-stained  day. 
Light  it,  old  sun,  wet  it,  thou  common  <iew, 

That  'neath  men's  feet  its  image  still  may  be 

While  yet  it  waves  about  them,  living  lyre,  like  theol" 

But  even  as  the  Poet  spoke,  behold 

He  lifted  up  his  face  toward  the  sky  ; 
The  ruddy  sun  dipt  under  the  gray  wold, 

His  shadowy  lyre  was  gone  ;  and,  passing  by 
The  woodman  lifting  up  his  sliears,  was  hold 

Their  tenii)er  on  those  branches  twain  to  'ryi 
And  all  their  loveliness  and  leafage  sweet 
Fell  in  tlie  pathway,  tit  the  l\>ot'H  feet. 


62  THE  STA/?'S  MONUMENT. 

"  Ah  !  my  fair  emblem  that  I  chose,"  quoth  he, 

"  That  for  myself  I  coveted  but  now, 
Too  soon,  methinks,  thou  hast  been  false  to  me; 

The  lyre  from  pathway  fades,  the  light  from  brow." 
Then  straightway  turned  he  from  it  hastily, 

As  dream  that  waking  sense  will  disallow  ; 
And  while  the  highway  heavenward  paled  apace. 
He  went  on  westward  to  Ids  dwelling-place. 

He  went  on  steadily,  while  far  and  fast 

The  summer  darkness  dropped  upon  the  world, 

A  gentle  air  among  the  cloudlets  passed 

And  fanned  away  their  crimson  ;  then  it  curled 

The  yellow  poppies  in  the  field,  and  cast 
A  dimness  on  the  grasses,  for  it  furled 

Their  daisies,  and  swept  out  the  purple  stain 

That  eve  had  left  upon  the  pastoral  plain. 

He  reached  his  city.     Lo  !  the  darkened  streot 
Where  he  abode  was  full  of  gazing  crowds  ; 

He  heard  the  muffled  tread  of  many  feet ; 
A  multitude  stood  gazing  at  the  clouds. 

"What  mark  ye  there,"  said  he,  "and  wherefore  meetV 
Only  a  passing  mist  the  heaven  o'ershrouds ; 

It  breaks,  it  parts,  it  drifts  like  scattered  spars — 

What  lies  behind  it  but  the  nightly  stars  ?  " 

Then  did  the  gazing  crowd  to  him  aver 

They  sought  a  lamp  in  heaven  whose  light  was  hid  ^ 
For  that  in  sooth  an  old  Astronomer 

Down  from  his  roof  had  rushed  into  their  mid, 
Frighted,  and  fain  with  others  to  confer, 

That  he  had  cried,  "  O  sirs  !  "—and  upward  bid 
Them  gaze — "  O  sirs,  a  light  is  quenclied  afar  ; 
Look  up,  my  masters,  we  have  lost  a  star  I  " 

The  peo{)le  pointed,  and  the  Poet's  eyes 
Plew  upward,  where  a  gleaming  sisterhood 


THE  STAR'S  MONUMENT.  63 

Swam  in  the  dewy  heaven.     The  very  skies 
Were  mutable  ;  for  all-amazed  he  stood 

To  see  that  truly  not  in  any  wise 

He  could  behold  them  as  of  old,  nor  could 

His  eyes  receive  the  whole  whereof  he  wot, 

But  when  he  told  them  over,  one  was  xot. 

While  yet  he  gazed  and  pondered  reverently, 

The  fickle  folk  began  to  move  away. 
"  It  is  but  one  star  less  for  us  to  see  ; 
And  what  does  one  star  signify  ?"  quoth  they  ; 
" The  heavens  are  full  of  then)."     "But  ahl "  said  he, 

"  That    star   was   bright   while   yet    she    lasted." 
"Ay!" 
They  answered  :  "  praise  her,  Poet,  an'  ye  will  : 
Some  are  now  shining  that  are  brighter  still." 

"  Poor  star  !  to  be  disparaged  so  soon 
On  her  withdrawal,"  thus  the  Poet  sighed  ; 

"  That  men  should  miss  and  straight  deny  her  noon 
Its  brightness  I  "     But  the  people  in  their  prido 

Said,  "  IIow  are  we  beholden  ?  'twas  no  boon 
She  gave.     Her  nature  'twas  to  shine  so  wide 

She  could  not  choose  but  shine,  nor  could  we  know 

Such  star  had  ever  dwelt  in  heaven  but  so." 

The  Poet  answered  sadly,  "  That  is  true  !  " 
And  then  he  thought  xipon  unthankfulness  ; 

While  some  went  homeward  ;  and  the  residue, 
Reflecting  that  the  stars  are  numberless,  • 

Mourned  that  man's  daylight  hours  should  be  so  few, 
So  short  the  shining  that  his  path  may  bless  : 

To  nearer  themes  then  tuned  their  willing  lips, 

And  thought  no  more  upon  the  star's  eclipse. 

But  he,  the  Poet,  could  not  rest  content 
Till  he  had  found  that  old  Astronomer; 

Therefore  at  midnight  to  his  house  he  went 
And  prayed  him  be  his  tale's  interpreter. 


64  THE,  STAR'S  MONUMENT. 

And  yet  upon  the  heaven  his  eyes  he  bent,     . 
Hearinp;  tlie  marvel  ;  yet  he  souf^ht  for  her 
That  was  awanting,  in  the  liope  her  face 
Once  more  miglit  till  its  reft  abidinp:-plaoe. 

Then  said  the  old  Astronomer  :  "My  son, 

I  sat  alone  upon  my  roof  to-night ; 
1  saw  the  stars  come  forth,  and  scarcely  shun 

To  fringe  the  edges  of  the  western  light  ; 
I  marked  those  ancient  clusters  one  by  one. 

The  same  that  blessed  our  old  forefather's  sight  j 
For  God  alone  is  older — none  but  lie 
Can  charge  the  stars  with  mutability  : 

"  The  elders  of  the  night,  the  steadfast  stars, 
The  old,  old  stars  which  God  has  let  us  see, 

That  they  might  be  our  soul's  auxiliars. 

And  help  us  to  the  truth  how  young  we  be — 

God's  youngest,  latest  born,  as  if,  some  spars 
And  a  little  clay  being  over  of  them — He 

Had  made  our  world  and  us  thereof,  yet  given, 

To  humble  us,  the  sight  of  ills  great  heaven. 

"  But  ah  I  ruy  son,  to-night  mine  ej^es  have  seen 
The  death  of  light,  the  end  of  old  renown  j 

A  shrinking  back  of  glory  that  had  been, 
A  dread  eclipse  before  the  Eternal's  frown. 

liow  soon  a  little  grass  will  grow  between 

These  eyes  and  those  appointed  to  look  d(jwQ 

Upon  a  world  that  was  not  made  on  high 

Till  the  last  scenes  of  their  long  empiry  ! 

"  To-night  that  shining  cluster  now  dospoil<'d 
Lay  in  day's  wake  a  perfect  sisteihood  ; 

Sweet  was  its  light  to  me  that  long  had  toileil. 
It  gleamed  and  trembled  o'er  the  distant  womi  ; 

Blown  in  a  pile  the  clouds  from  it  recoiled. 
Uooi  twiliglit  ui»  the  sliv  her  way  luade  good  ; 


'IIJE  STAR'S  MONUMENT.  65 


X  saw,  bu<,  not  believed — it  was  so  strange 

That  one  of  those  same  stars  had  suffered  change. 

"  The  darkness  gathered,  and  luethought  she  spread. 

Wrappotl  in  a  reddish  haze  that  waxed  and  waned; 
But  notwithstanding  to  myself  1  said — 

'The  stars  are  changeless;  sure  some  moto  bath 
stained 
Mine  eyes,  and  her  fair  glory  minishod.'     ' 

Of  age  and  failing  vision  I  complained,    - 
And  thought  '  some  vapor  in  the  heaven?  doth  r>'im 
Tlia^  makes  her  look  so  large  and  yet  so  dim.' 

"  But  1  gazed  round.-  and  all  lier  lustrous  peers 
In  her  rei!  presence  showed  but  wan  and  wliito 

For  like  a  living  coal  beheld  througb  tears 

8h*-  giowed  and  quivered  with  a  gloomy  li^'ihtj 

Methought  she  trembled,  as  all  sicli  through  ft^ir"-; 
Helpless,  appalled,  appealing  to  the  night; 

Like  one  who  throws  his  arms  up  to  th«-  t-Ry 

And  bows  down  sulleringr  hopeiess  01  repiy» 

"  At  length,  as  if  an  everlasting  Ilanu 
Had  taken  hold  upon  her  in  her  place. 

And  swiftly,  like  a  golden  trrain  of  sand, 
Through  all  the  deep  infinitudes  of  space 

Was  drawing  h^r — God's  truth  as  iiere  1  stana — 
Uackward  and  inward  to  itself  ;  her  lace 

I^ast  lessened,  lessened,  till  it  looked  no  rrioie 

Tiian  smallest  atom  on  a  boundless  shore. 

*'  And  she  that  was  p(;  ^lir,  T  saw  her  lie. 
The  smallest  tiling  in  God's  great  fimianiei.t. 

Till  night  was  at  the  darkest,  and  on  high 

ller  sisters  glittered,  though  her  light  was  sp'^yjt  ' 

I  strained,  to  follow  bor.  each  acb'ni»  eye- 
So  swiiUy  at  her  uiaker's  will  she  v>eut : 

6 


65  THE  STAR'S  MONUMENT. 

I  looked  again — I  looked — the  star  was  gone, 
And  nothing  marked    in    heaven   where    shf'    had 
shone." 

"  Gone  ! "  said  the  Poet,  "  and  about  to  be 
Forgotten  :  O,  how  sad  a  fate  is  hers  !  " 

"  How  is  it  sad,  my  son  ?  "  all  reverently 
The  old  man  answered ;   "  though  she  ministe,  ) 

No  longer  with  her  lamp  to  me  and  thee, 
Sho  has  fulfilled  her  mission.     God  transfers 

Or  dims  her  ray  ;  yet  was  she  blest  as  bright, 

For  all  her  life  was  spent  in  giving  light." 

'  Her  mission  she  fulfilled  assuredly," 
The  poet  cried  :  "  but,  O  unhappy  star ! 

None  praise  and  few  will  bear  in  memory 
The  name  she  went  by.     O,  from  far,  from  far 

Comes  down,  methinks,  her  mournful  voice  to  mf 
Full  of  regrets  that  men  so  thankless  are." 

80  said,  he  told  that  old  Astronomer 

All  that  the  gazing  crowd  had  said  of  her. 

And  he  went  on  to  speak  in  bitter  wise, 
Asone  who  seems  to  tell  another's  fate, 

But  feels  that  nearer  meaning  underlies, 
And  points  its  sadness  to  his  own  estate  : 

"  If  such  be  the  reward,"  he  said  with  siglis, 
"  Envy  to  earn  for  love,  for  goodness  hate — 

If  such  be  thy  reward,  hard  case  is  thine  1 

It  had  been  better  for  thee  not  to  shine. 

"  If  to  reflect  a  light  that  is  divine 

Makes  that  which  doth  rellect  it  better  seeu; 

And  if  to  see  is  to  contemn  the  shrine, 
'Twere  surely  better  it  had  never  been  : 

It  had  been  better  for  her  NOT  to  shijve. 
And  for  me  not  to  sing.     Better,  I  ween, 

For  us  to  yield  no  more  that  radiance  bright, 

For  them,  to  lack  the  light  than  scorn  the  light." 


THE  STAR'S  MONUMENT.  67 


Strange  words  were  those  from  Poet  lips  (said  lip)  : 
And  then  he  paused,  and  sighed,  and  turneu  to 
look 

Upon  the  lady's  downcast  eyes,  and  see 
Uow  fast  tlie  honey  bees  in  settling  shook 

Those  apple  blossoms  on  her  from  the  tree ; 
He  watched  her  busy  fingers  as  they  took 

And  slipped  the  knotted   thread,  and  thought  hou> 
much 

He  would  have  given  that  hand  to  hold— to  touch. 

At  length,  as  suddenly  become  aware 
Of  this  long  pause  she  lifted  up  her  face. 

And  he  withdrew  his  eyes — she  looked  so  fair 
And  cold,  he  thought,  in  her  unconscious  grace. 

*'  Ah  !  little  dreams  she  of  the  restless  care," 

He  thought,  "  that  makes  my  heart  to  throb  a[);v<*<» 

Though  we  this  morning  part,  the  knowledge  sends 

No  thrill  to  her  calm  pulse — we  are  but  fhiends." 

Ah  !  turret  clock  (he  thought),  I  would  thy  hand 
Were  hid  behind  yon  towering  maple-trees  I 

Ah  !  tell-tale  shadow,  but  one  moment  stand — 
Dark  shadow — fast  advancing  to  my  knees  ; 

Ah  !  foolish  heart  (he  thought),  that  vainly  planned 
T-?y  feigning  gladness  to  arrive  at  ease  ; 

Ah  I  painful  hour,  yet  pain  to  think  it  ends; 

I  must  remember  that  we  are  but  friends. 

And  while  the  knotted  thread  moved  to  and  fro, 
In  sweet  regretful  tones  that  lady  said  : 

*'  It  seenieth  that  the  fame  yoii  would  forego 
The  Poet  whom  you  tell  of  (coveted  ; 

But  I  would  fain,  nu^thinks.  his  story  know. 
And  was  he  loved  ?"  said  she,  "  or  was  he  wed  ? 

Anil   had   he  friends ?"    "One  friend,  perhaps,"  said 
he; 

"  Uut  fur  the  rest,  I  pray  you  let  it  be." 


<t)6  THE  STAR'S  MONUMENT. 


Ah  !  little  bird  (he  thought),  most  patient  bird, 

Breasting  thy  speckled  eggs  the  long  day  through. 
By  so  much  as  my  reason  is  preferred 

Above  thine  instinct,  i  my  work  would  do 
Better  than  thou  dost  thine.     Thou  hast  not  stirred 

This  hour  thy  wing.     Ah  !  russet  bird,  I  sue 
For  a  like  patience  to  wear  through  these  hours- 
Bird  on  thy  nest  among  the  apple-flowers. 

I  will  not  speak — I  will  not  speak  to  thee. 

My  star  !  and  soon  to  be  my  lost,  lost  star. 
The  sweetest,  first,  that  ever  shone  on  me. 

So  high  above  me  and  beyond  so  far  ; 
I  can  forego  thee,  but  not  bear  to  see 

My  love,  like  rising  mist,  thy  lustre  mar: 
That  were  a  base  return  for  thy  sweet  light. 
Shine,  though  1  never  more  shall  see  that  tliou  art 
bright. 

Never  !  'Tis  certain  that  no  hope  is— none  ' 
No  hope  for  me,  and  yet  for  thee  no  fear. 

The  hardest  part  of  my  hard  task  is  done  ; 
Thy  calm  assures  me  that  I  am  not  dear; 

Though  far  and  fast  the  rapid  moments  run. 
Thy  bosom  heaveth  not,  thine  eyes  are  clear; 

Silent,  perhaps  a  little  .^ad  at  heart 

She  is.     I  am  her  friend,  and  I  depart. 

Silent  slie  had  been,  but  she  raised  her  face  ; 

"And   will   you   end,"    said    she,    "this   half-told 
tale?" 
"  Yes,  it  were  best,"  he  answered  her.     "  The  place 

Where  I  left  olT  was  where  he  felt  to  fail 
His  courage.  Madam,  through  the  fancy  base 

That  they  who  love,  endure,  or  work,  may  rail 
And  cease — if  all  their  love,  the  works  they  wrought, 
AiLd  tLair  endurance,  men  have  eet  at  narght.' 


TITE  STAR'S  MONUMENT.  L.9 

'  It  had  been  better  for  me  not  to  singe," 
My  Poet  said,  "  and  for  her  not  to  shine  ;  " 

But  tiiui  tlie  old  man  answered,  sorrowing, 
"My  son,  lad  God  who  made  her,  the  Divine 

Lighter  of  suns,  when  down  to  yon  bright  ring 
He  cast  her  hke  some  gleaming  ahnandinSs, 

And  set  her  in  her  place,  begirt  with  rays, 

Say  unto  her  '  Give  light,'  or  say  '  Earn  praise  ?  '  " 

The  Poet  said,  "  He  made  her  to  give  light." 

"  My  son,"  the  old  man  answered,  "  blest  are  such, 

A  blessed  lot  is  theirs  ;  but  if  each  night 

Mankind  had  praised  her  radiance — inasmuch 

As  praise  liad  never  made  it  wax  more  bright, 
And  cannot  now  rekindle  with  its  touch 

Her  lost  ellulgence,  it  is  naught.     I  wot 

That  praise  was  not  her  blessing  nor  her  lot." 

"Ay,"  said  the  Poet,  "  I  my  words  abjure, 
And  I  repent  me  that  I  uttered  them  ; 

But  by  her  light  and  by  its  forfeiture 
She  shall  not  pass  without  her  requiem. 

Though  my  name  peiish,  yet  shall  hors  endure; 
Though  I  should  be  forgotten,  she.  lost  gem. 

Shall  be  remembered  ;  though  she  sought  not  fame, 

It  shall  be  busy  with  her  beauteous  name. 

"  For  I  will  raise  in  her  bright  memory. 

Lost  now  on  earth,  a  lasting  monument, 
And  graven  on  it  shall  recorded  be 

That  {:,ll  lier  rays  to  light  mankind  Avere  spent  ; 
And  I  will  sing  alijeit  none  heedeth  me. 

On  her  exemplar  being  still  intent: 
While  in  men's  sight  shall  stand  the  record  thus— 
*  So  long  as  she  did  last  she  lighted  us.'  " 

So  said,  he  raised,  according  to  his  vow. 

On  the  greeu  grass,  where  oft  his  townsfolks  met. 


Under  the  shadow  of  a  leafy  bough 

That  leaned  toward  a  singing  rivulet, 
One  pure  white  stone,  whereon,  like  crown  on  brow, 

The  image  of  the  vanished  star  was  set  ; 
And  this  was  graven  on  the  pure  white  stone 
In  golden  letters — "  While  she  lived  she  shonb. 


)i 


Madam,  I  cannot  give  this  story  weh — 
My  heart  is  beating  to  another  chime  ; 

My  voice  must  needs  a  different  cadence  swell  ; 
It  is  yon  singing  bird,  which  all  the  time 

Wooeth  his  nested  mate,  that  doth  dispel 

My  thoughts.     What,  deem  you,  could  a  lovor'P 
rhyme 

The  sweetness  of  that  passionate  lay  excel  ? 

O  soft,  O  low  her  voice — "  I  cannot  tell." 


[He  thinks.^ 

The  old  man — ay,  he  spoke,  he  was  not  hard  ; 

"  She  was  his  joy,"  he  said,  "  his  comforter, 
But  he  would  trust  me.     I  was  not  debarred 

Whate'er  my  heart  approved  to  say  to  her." 
Approved  1     O  torn  and  tempted  and  ill-starred 

And  breaking  heart,  approve  not  nor  demur ; 
It  is  the  serpent  that  beguileth  thee 
With  *'  God  doth  know  "  beneath  this  apple-treo. 

Yea,  God  doth  know,  and  only  God  doth  know. 

Have  pity,  God,  my  spirit  groans  to  Thee  I 
I  bear  Thy  curse  primeval,  and  I  go  ; 

But  heavier  than  on  Adam  falls  on  me 
My  tillage  of  the  wilderness  ;  for,  lo  ! 

I  leave  behind  the  woman,  and  I  see 
As  'twere  the  gates  of  Eden  closing  o'er 
To  hide  her  from  my  sight  for  evermore. 


THE  STAR'S  MONUMENT.  71 

\He  speaks.] 

I  am  a  fool,  -with  sudden  start  he  cried. 

To  let  the  son^-bird  work  ine  such  unrest ; 
If  1  break  off  again,  I  pray  you  chide, 

For  morning  fleeteth,  with  my  tale  at  best 
Half  told.    That  white  stone.  Madam,  gleamed  beside 

The  little  rivulet,  and  all  men  pressed 
To  road  the  lost  one's  story  traced  thereon. 
The  golden  legend—"  While  she  lived  she  rfhone." 

And,  Madam,  when  the  Poet  heard  them  read. 
And  children  spell  the  letters  softly  through, 

It  may  be  that  he  felt  at  heart  some  need, 
Rome  craving  to  be  thus  remembered  too  • 

It  may  be  that  he  wondered  if  indeed 

Ue  must  die  wholly  when  he  passed  from  view  ; 

It  u)ay  be,  wished,  when  death  his  eyes  made  dim, 

Tliat  some  kind  hand  would  raise  such  etone  for  him. 

But  shortly,  as  there  comes  tamest  of  us, 

There  came  to  him  the  need  to  quit  his  home  : 

To  tell  you  why  were  .simply  hazardous; 

What  said  I,  Madam  ? — men  were  made  to  roam 

My  meaning  is.     It  hath  been  always  thus  : 
They  are  athirpt  for  mountains  and  sea  foam  ; 

litiirs  of  this  world,  what  'vonder  if  perchance 

Ttiey  long  to  nee  their  grand  inheritance? 

12 '  Inft  hie  city,  aixi  "^ent  forth  to  teach 
Mankind,  bis  pikers,  the  hidden  harmony 

That  underlies  (iod's  discords,  and  to  reach 
And  tcuch  the  master-string  that  like  a  sigh 

Thrills  in  their  souls,  as  if  it  would  beseech 
Some  hand  to  sound  it,  and  to  satisfy 

Tts  yearning  for  e?;pression  :  but  no  word 

Ti.l  poet  toach  it  hath  to  make  its  music  heard. 


ys  THE  STAR'S  MONUMENT. 


[He  thinks.] 

I  know  that  God  is  good,  thoujrh  pvil  dwells 
Among  us,  and  doth  all  things  holiest  share  ; 

That  there  is  joy  in  heaven,  while  yet  onr  knells 
Sound  for  the  souls  which  He  has  summoned  there  ? 

Tiiat  painful  love  unsatisfied  hath  spells 

Earned  by  its  smart  to  soothe  its  fellow's  care- 

But  yet  this  atom  cannot  in  the  whole 

Forget  itself — it  ache**  "'.  separate  soul. 

[lie  speaks.] 

But,  Madam,  to  my  Poet  I  return. 

With  hio  sweet  cadences  of  woven  words 
He  made  their  rude  untutored  hearts  to  burn 

And  melt  like  gold  refined.     No  brooding  birds 
Sing  better  of  the  love  that  doth  sojourn 

Hid  in  the  nest  of  home,  which  softly  girds 
The  beating  heart  of  life  ;  and,  strait  though  it  be, 
Is  straitness  better  than  wide  liberty. 

He  taught  them,  and  they  learned,  but  not  the  less 
Remained  unconscious  whence  that  lore  they  drew 

But  dreamed  that  of  their  native  nobleness 

Some  lofty  thoughts,  that  he  had  planted,  grew  ; 

His  glorious  maxims  in  a  lowly  dress, 

Like  seed  sown  broadcast,  sprung  in  a'.I  men's  view. 

The  sower,  passing  onward,  was  not  known, 

And  all  men  reaped  the  harvest  as  their  own. 

It  may  be,  Madam,  that  those  ballads  sweet. 
Whoso  rhythmic  measures  yesterday  wt;  sung, 

Which  time  and  changes  make  not  obsolete, 
But  (as  a  river  bears  down  blossoms  flung 

Upon  its  breast)  take  with  them  while  they  fleet- 
it  may  be  from  his  lyre  that  first  they  sprung  : 

But  who  can  tell,  since  work  surviveth  fame? — 

The  rhyme  is  left,  but  lost  the  Poet's  name. 


THE\';7\4R'S  MONUMENT.  73 


Ug  worked,  and  bravply  he  fulfilled  his  trust — 
So  long  he  wandered  sowing  worthy  seed, 

Watering  of  wavside  buds  that  were  adust, 
And  touc]iii\g  for  the  common  ear  liis  reed — 

n<>  long  to  wear  away  the  cankering  rust 
That  dulls  the  gold  of  life — so  long  to  plead 

With  sweetest  music  for  all  souls  oppressed, 

That  he  was  old  ere  he  had  thought  of  rest. 

Old  and  gray-headed,  leaning  on  a  staff. 
To  that  great  city  of  his  birth  he  came. 

And  at  its  gates  he  paused  with  wondering  laugh 
To   think  how  changed  were  all  his  thoughts  of 
fame 

Since  first  he  carved  the  golden  epitaph  t 

To  keep  in  memory  a  worthy  name. 

And  thought  forgetfulness  had  been  its  doom 

But  for  a  few  bright  letters  on  a  tomb. 

The  old  Astronomer  had  long  since  died  ; 

The  friends  of  youth  were  gone  and  far  dispersed  ; 
Strange  were  the  domes  that  rose  on  every  side  ; 

Strange  fountains  on  his  wondering  vision  burst ; 
The  men  of  yesterday  their  business  plied  ; 

No  face  was  left  that  he  had  known  at  first  * 
And  in  the  city  gardens,  lo  !  he  sees 
The  saplings  that  he  set  are  stately  trees. 

Upon  the  grass  beneath  their  welcome  sliade, 
Behold  !  he  marks  the  fair  white  monument, 

And  on  its  face  the  golden  words  displayed. 
For  sixty  years  their  lustre  have  not  spent ; 

lie  sitteth  by  it  and  is  not  afraid, 

But  in  its  shadow  he  is  well  content ; 

And  envies  not,  though  bright  their  gleainings  are 

The  golden  letters  of  the  vanished  star. 


74  THE  STAR'S  MONUMENT. 

He  gazeth  up  ;  exceeding  bright  appears 

That  golden  legend  to  his  aged  eyes, 
For  they  are  dazzled  till  they  fill  with  tears. 

And  his  lost  Youth  doth  like  a  vision  rise  ; 
She  saith  to  him,  "  In  all  these  toilsome  years, 

What  hast  thou  won  by  work  or  enterjjrise  ? 
What  hast  thou  won  to  make  amends  to  thee, 
As  thou  didst  swear  to  do,  for  loss  of  me  ? 

"  O  man  !  O  white-haired  man  !  "  the  vision  said, 
"  Since  we  two  sat  beside  this  monument 

Life's  clearest  hues  are  all  evanislu'd, 

The  golden  wealth  thou  hadst  of  me  is  spent ; 

The  wind  hath  swept  thy  flowers,  their  leaveb  aro 
shed; 
The  music  is  played  out  that  with  thee  went." 

"  Peace,  peace ! "    he   cried;    "I    lost   iheo,    but,   in 
truth. 

There  are  worse  losses  than  the  loss  of  youth." 

He  said  not  what  those  losses  were — but  I  — 

But  I  must  leave  them,  for  the  time  draws  near. 

Some  lose  not  OXLY  joy,  but  memory 

Of  how  it  felt :  not  love  that  was  so  dear 

Lose  only,  but  the  steadfast  certainty 

That  once  they  had  it  ]  doubt  comes  on,  then  fear. 

And  after  that  desnondency.     I  wis 

The  Poet  must  have  meant  such  loss  as  this. 

But  while  he  sat  and  pondered  on  his  youth, 
He  said,  "  It  did  one  deed  that  doth  remain. 

For  it  preserved  the  memory  and  the  truth 
Of  her  that  now  doth  neither  set  nor  wane, 

But  shine  in  all  men's  thoughts  ;  nor  sink  forsootb, 
And  be  forgotten  like  the  summer  rain. 

O,  it  is  good  that  man  should  not  forget 

Or  benetits  foregone  or  biightness  set  I" 


THE  STAR'S  MONUMENT.  75 

He  spoke  and  said,  "My  lot  contenteth  me  • 
1  am  rifiht  glad  for  this  her  worthy  fame  ; 

That  which  was  good  and  great  I  fain  would  see 
Drawn  with  a  halo  round  what  rests — its  name." 

TMs  while  the  Poet  said,  behold,  there  came 
A  workman  with  his  tools  anear  the  tree, 

And  when  he  read  the  words  he  paused  awhile 

And  pondered  on  them  with  a  wondering  smile. 

And  then  he  said,  "  I  pray  yon,  Sir,  what  mean 
The  golden  letters  of  this  monument?  " 

In  wonder  quoth  the  Poet,  "  Hast  thou  been 
A  dweller  near  at  hand,  and  their  intent 

Hast  neither  heard  by  voice  of  fame,  nor  seen 
The  marble  earlier  ?  "     "  Ay,"  said  he,  and  leant 

Upon  liis  spade  to  hear  the  tale,  then  sigh, 

And  say  it  was  a  marvel,  and  pass  by. 

Then  said  the  Poet,  "  This  is  strange  to  me." 
But  as  he  mused,  with  trouble  in  his  mind, 

A  band  of  maids  approached  him  leisurely, 
Like  vessels  sailing  with  a  favoring  wind  ; 

And  of  their  rosy  lips  requested  he. 

As  one  that  for  a  doubt  would  solving  find. 

The  tale,  if  tale  there  were,  of  that  white  stone, 

And  those  fair  letters — "  While  she  lived  she  shone." 

Then  like  a  fleet  that  floats  becalmed  they  stay. 

"  O,  Sir,"  saith  one,  "  this  monument  is  old  ; 
But  we  have  heard  our  virtuous  mothers  say 

That  by  their  mothers  thus  the  tale  was  told  : 
A  Poet  made  it  ;  journeying  then  away. 

He  left  us  ;  and  though  some  the  meaning  hold 
For  other  than  the  ancient  one,  yet  we 
Receive  this  legend  for  a  certainty  :  — 

"  There  was  a  lily  once,  most  purely  white, 
Beneath  tlie  shadow  of  these  boughs  it  grew ; 


76  THE  STAR'S  MON-UMhNT. 

Its  starry  blossom  it  unclosed  by  night, 
And  a  young  Poet  loved  its  shape  and  hue. 

He  watched  it  nightly,  'twas  so  fair  a  sight 
Until  a  stormy  wind  arose  and  blew, 

And  when  he  came  once  more  his  flower  to  greet 

Its  fallen  petals  drifted  to  his  feet. 

"  And  for  his  beautiful  white  lily's  sake, 
That  she  might  be  remembered  where  her  scent 

Haa  oeca  right  sweet,  he  said  that  he  would  make 
In  her  dear  memory  a  monument  : 

For  she  was  i)urer  than  a  driven  flake 

Of  snow,  and  in  her  grace  most  excellent  ; 

The  loveliest  life  that  death  did  ever  mar, 

As  beautiful  to  gr.,ze  on  as  a  star.' 

"  I  tliank  you,  inaid,"  the  Poet  answered  her, 
"  And  I  am  glad  that  I  havs  beard  your  tale." 

With  that  they  passed  ;  and  as  an  inlander, 
Having  heai'd  breakers  raging  in  a  gale 

And  falling  down  in  thunder,  will  aver 
That  still,  when  far  away  in  grassy  vale. 

He  seems  to  hear  those  seething  waters  bound. 

So  in  his  ears  the  maiden's  voice  did  sound. 

He  leaned  his  face  upon  his  hand,  and  thought 
And  thouglit,  until  a  youth  came  by  that  way  ; 

And  once  again  of  him  the  Poet  sought 
The  story  of  the  star.     But,  well-a-day  ! 

lie  said,  "  The  meaning  with  inudi  doubt  is  fraught. 
The  sense  thereof  can  no  n)an  surely  suy ; 

For  still  tradition  sways  the  common  ear. 

That  of  a  truth  a  star  did  disappkar. 

"  But  they  who  look  beneatli  the  oute^  shell 
That  wraps  the  '  kernel  of  the  people's  lore,' 

Hold  THAT  for  superstition  ;  and  they  tell 
That  seven  lovely  sisters  dwelt  of  yore 


THE  STAR'S  MONUMENT.  77 

In  this  old  city,  where  it  so  befell 

That  one  a  Poet  loved  ;  that,  furthermora, 
As  stars  above  us  she  was  pure  and  good, 
And  fairest  of  thai  beauteous  sisterhood. 

"  So  V)eautiful  they  were,  those  virgins  sevt^n, 
Tliat  all  nier  called  them  clustered  stars  in  song, 

Forgetful  that  the  stars  abide  in  heaven  : 
But  woman  bideth  not  beneath  it  long  ; 

For  0,  alas  !  alas !  one  fated  even, 

When  stars  their  azure  deeps  began  to  throng, 

That  virgin's  eyes  of  Poet  loved  wa.xed  dim, 

And  all  their  lustrous  shining  waned  to  him. 

"  In  summer  dusk  she  drooped  her  head  and  sifjhed 
Until  what  time  the  evening  star  went  uowu, 

And  all  the  other  stars  did  shining  bide 
Clear  in  the  lustre  of  their  old  renown, 

And  then — the  virgin  laid  her  down  and  died  : 
Forgot  her  youth,  forgot  her  beauty's  crown, 

Forgot  the  sisters  whom  she  loved  before. 

And  broke  her  Poet's  hear  for  evermore." 

"  A  niournful  tale,  in  sooth,"  the  lady  saith  : 
•'  But  did  he  truly  grieve  for  evermore  ?  " 

"It  may  be  you  forget,"  he  answereth, 
"  That  this  is  but  a  fable  at  the  core 

O'  the  other  fable."     "  Though  it  be  but  breath," 
Sht  asketh ,  ' '  was  it  true  ? ' '     Then  he,   "  This  ion^, 

Since  it  is  fable,  either  way  may  go  ; 

Then,  if  it  please  you,  think  it  might  be  so." 

"  Nay,  but,"  she  saith,  "  if  I  had  told  your  tale. 
The  virgin  should  l:ave  lived  his  home  to  bleMij 

Or,  must  she  die,  1  would  luive  made  to  fail 
ills  useless  love."     "  1  tell  you  not  the  iesb/* 

He  sighs,   "  because  it  was  of  no  avail  : 
His  heart  the  Poet  would  not  dispotsscbs 


Tli^TPof.     But  let  us  leavp  the  fable  now, 
My  Poet  heard  it  with  an  aching  brow." 

And  he  made  answer  thus  :  "  I  thank  thee,  youth  ; 

'itrange  is  thy  story  to  these  aged  ears, 
But  1  bethink  me  thou  hast  told  a  truth 

Under  the  guise  of  fable.     If  my  tears, 
Thon  lost  beloved  star,  lost  now,  forsooth, 

Indeed  could  bring  thee  back  among  thy  i)eer8, 
So  new  thou  shouldst  be  deemed  as  newly  seen, 
for  men  forget  that  thou  hast  ever  been. 

"There  was  a  morning  when  I  longed  for  fiiiue. 
There  was  a  noontide  when  I  passed  it  by, 

'J'hore  is  an  evening  when  I  think  not  shame 
Its  substance  and  its  being  to  deny  ; 

For  if  men  liear  in  mind  great  deeds,  the  name 

0\  him  that  wrought  them  shall  they  leave  to  div } 

Or  if  his  name  they  shall  have  deathless  writ, 

They  change  the  deeds  that  first  ennobled  it. 

'•  O  golden  letters  of  this  monument! 

O  words  to  celebrate  a  loved  renown 
Lost  now  or  wrested,  and  to  fancies  lent. 

Or  on  a  fabled  forehead  set  for  crown  ! 
For  my  departed  star,  I  am  content. 

Though  legends  dim  and  years  her  memorv  '1 1  own  ; 
For  what  were  fame  to  her,  compared  and  set 
By  this  great  truth  which  yo  make  lustrous  yet  ?  " 

"  /^  dieu  I  "  the  Poet  said,  "  my  vanished  star, 
Tliy  duty  and  thy  liappiness  were  one. 

Work  is  heaven's  best  ;  its  fame  is  sublunar  : 
TJie  fame  thou  dost  not  need — the  work  is  duuo. 

b'oy  thee  1  am  content  that  these  things  are  ; 
Mort^  than  content  were  1,  my  race  being  run, 

Miuht  it  l)t^-  tru«  of  nie,  though  none  thereon 

tSlnjuld  aiu.>5t;  legi-eciul     '  VV  liile  He  liveU  he  shone.' ' 


THE  STAR'S  MONUMENT.  79 


So  sa,i<i,  the  Poet  rose  and  went  his  Avay, 

And  that  same  lot  he  proved  whereof  he  spake. 

Madam,  my  srory  is  told  out ;  the  day 

Draws  out  her  shadows,  time  doth  overtake 

The  moniiiig.     That  which  endeth  call  a  lay. 
Bung  after  pause — a  motto  in  the  break 

Between  two  chapters  of  a  tale  not  new, 

Nor  joyful — but  a  common  tale.     Adieu  I 

And  that  same  God  who  made  your  face  so  fai'-. 
And  pav(>  your  woman's  heart  its  tenderness. 

So  shield  the  blessing  lie  implanted  there, 
That  't  may  never  turn  to  your  distress, 

And  never  cost  you  trouble  or  despair, 

Nor,  granted,  leave  the  granter  comfortless  ; 

But  like  a  river,  blest  where'er  it  liowfc. 

Be  still  receiving  while  it  still  bestows. 

Adieu,  he  said,  and  paused,  while  she  sat  mut^i 
In  the  soft  shadow  of  the  ajjple-tree  ; 

The  skylark's  song  rang  like  a  joyous  Uute, 
The  brook  went  prattling  past  her  restlessly  ; 

Ghe  let  their  tongues  be  her  tongue's  substitute  : 
It  was  the  wiiid  tliat  sighed,  it  was  not  she  . 

And  what  the  lark,  the  brook,  the  wind,  had  t.i;.id, 

We  cannot  tell,  for  none  interpreted. 

Tlieir  counsels  might  be  hard  to  reconcile, 
They  might  not  suit  the  moment  or  the  spot. 

She  rose,  and  laid  her  work  aside  the  while 
Down  in  the  sunshine  of  that  grassy  plot; 

She  looked  u[)on  him  with  an  almost  smile, 
And  held  to  hiiu  a  hand  that  faltered  not. 

One  moment — bird  and  brook  went  warbling  on, 

And  the  wind  sighed  again — and  lie  was  gone. 

iSo  quietly,  as  if  she  lieard  no  more 
Ur  skylark  in  the  azure  overhead. 


Or  water  slipping  past  the  cressy  shore. 

Or  wind  that  rose  in  sighs,  and  sighing  fled — 
vSo  quietly,  until  the  alders  hoar 

Took  him  beneath  them  ;  till  the  downward  spread 
Of  planes  engulfed  him  in  their  leafy  seas 
She  stood  beneath  her  rose-flushed  apple-trees. 

And  then  she  stooped  toward  the  mossy  grasS; 

Afid  gathered  up  her  work  and  went  her  way  ; 
Straight  to  that  ancient  turret  she  did  pass. 

And  startle  back  some  fawns  that  were  at  play. 
She  did  not  sigh,  she  never  said  "  Alas  !  " 

Although  he  was  her  friend  ;  but  still  that  day, 
Where  elm  and  hornbeam  spread  a  towering  dome, 
She  crossed  the  dells  to  her  ancestral  home. 

And  did  she  love  him  ? — what  if  she  did  not  ? 

Then  home  was  still  the  home  of  happiest  years  j 
Nor  thought  was  exiled  to  partake  his  lot, 

Nor  heart  lost  courage  througli  foredoduig  fearu  j 
Nor  eclio  did  against  her  secret  plot, 

In  or  music  her  betray  to  painful  tears  ; 
Nor  life  become  a  dream,  and  sunshine  dim, 
Aud  riches  poverty,  because  of  him. 

bat  did  she  love  him  ? — what  and  if  she  did? 

Love  cannot  cool  the  burning  Austral  sand. 
Nor  show  the  secret  waters  that  lie  hid 

In  arid  valleys  of  that  desert  land. 
Love  has  no  spells  can  scorching  winds  forbid, 

Or  bring  the  help  which  tarrit;s  near  to  hand, 
Or  spread  a  cloud  for  curtaining  faded  eyes 
That  gaze  up  dying  into  aheii  skiot>. 


A  DEAD   YEAR.  8 1 


A  DEAD  YEAR. 

T  TOOK  a  year  out  of  iny  life  and  story — 
A  dead  year,  and  said,  "  1  will  hew  thee  a  tomb  ■ 

'  All  the  kings  of  the  nations  lie  in  glory  ; ' 
Cased  in  cedar,  and  shut  in  a  sacred  gloom  ; 
Swathed  in  linen,  and  precious  unguents  old  ; 
Painted  with  cinnabar,  and  rich  with  gold 

"  Silent  they  rest,  in  solemn  salvatory, 
Sealed  from  the  moth  and  the  owl  and  the  flittor- 
mouse — 
Each  with  his  name  on  his  brow. 
'All  the  kings  of  the  nations  lie  in  glory, 
r.very  one  in  his  own  house  : ' 
Then  why  not  thou  ? 

"  Year,"  I  said,  "  thou  shalt  not  lack 
Bribes  to  bar  tiiy  coming  back  \ 
D  jth  old  Egypt  wear  her  best 
In  the  chambers  of  her  rest  ? 
Doth  she  take  to  her  last  bed 
IJeaten  gold,  and  glorious  red  ?  , 

Envy  not !  for  thou  wilt  wear 
lu  the  Uark  a  shroud  as  fair  ; 
Golden  with  the  snrny  ;ay 
Thou  withdrawest  from  my  day  ; 
Wrought  upon  with  colors  line 
Stolen  from  tliis  life  of  mine  : 
Like  the  dusty  Libyan  iangs, 
Lie  with  two  wide-open  wings 
On  thy  breast,  as  if  to  say, 
On  these  wings  hope  Hew  away  ; 
And  so  housed,  and  thus  adorned. 
Not  forgotten,  but  not  scorned, 
Let  the  dark  for  evermore 
Close  thee  when  1  close  the  duor  ; 

6 


82  A  DEAD  YEAR. 


And  the  dust  for  apjes  fall 
In  the  creases  of  thy  pall  ; 
And  DO  voice  nor  visit  rude 
Break  thy  sealed  solitude." 

I  took  the  year  out  of  my  life  and  sforv. 
The  dead  year,  and  said,  "  I  have  hewed  thee  a  totnl; ! 

'  All  the  kings  of  the  nations  lie  in  glory,' 
Cased  in  cedar,  and  shut  in  a  sacred  <ilof)ni  ; 
But  for  the  sword,  and  the  sceptre,  and  diadem, 

Sure  thou  didst  reign  like  them." 
So  I  laid  her  with  those  tyrants  old  and  hoary. 

According  to  my  vow  ; 
Per  1  said.  "  The  kings  of  the  nations  li«  lu  JiJory-, 
And  so  shalt  thou  I  " 


( 


"Rock,"  J  said,  "  thy  ribs  are  strong. 

That  I  bring  thee  guard  it  long  ; ) 

Hide  the  light  from  buried  eyes — 

Hide  it,  lest  the  dead  arise." 

"  Year,"  I  said,  and  turned  awayi 

"  I  am  free  of  thee  this  day  ; 

All  that  wc  two  only  know, 

I  forgive  and  I  forego, 

So  thy  face  no  more  I  meet 

la  the  field  or  in  the  street." 

Thus  we  parted,  she  and  I ; 
Life  hid  death,  and  put  it  by  \ 
IMe  hid  death,  and  said,  "  Be  ireo? 
I  have  no  more  need  of  tlieo." 
No  more  need  !     O  mad  mistake, 
''■Vith  repentance  in  its  wake  I 
Ignorant,  and  rash,  and  blind, 
Life  had  left  the  grave  behind  ; 
But  had  locked  within  its  hold, 
With  the  spices  and  tho  gold, 


A  DEAD   YEAR. 


All  she  had  to  keep  her  warm 
In  the  raging  of  the  storm. 

c5carce  the  sunset  bloom  was  prone» 
iind  the  little  stars  outshone, 
Ere  the  dead  year,  stiff  and  st;.  rk, 
Drew  me  to  her  in  the  dark  ; 
Death  drew  life  to  come  to  herj 
Beating  at  her  sepulchre, 
Crying  out,  "  How  caii  I  part 
>Vith  ihe  best  share  of  my  heaii;? 
Lo,  it  lies  upon  the  bier, 
Captive,  with  tne  buried  year. 

0  my  heart !  "     And  I  fell  prona, 
Weeping  at  the  sealed  stone  ; 

"  Year  among  the  shades,"  I  f  aid^ 
"  Since  I  live,  and  thou  art  dead, 
Let  my  captive  lieartbe  free 
lake  a  bird  to  lly  to  me." 
And  1  stayed  some  voice  to  wiu^ 
But  none  answered  from  within  ; 
And  I  kissed  the  door — and  nigh*. 
Deepened  till  the  stars  waxed  bright 
And  I  saw  them  set  and  wane, 
And  the  world  turned  grecu  again. 

'*  So,"  I  whispered,  "open  door, 

1  niust  tread  this  palace  floor  ~ 
Bealid  palace,  rich  and  dim. 
Let  a  narrow  sunbeam  swi.'u 
After  me,  and  on  me  spread 
While  I  look  upon  my  dead  , 
Let  a  little  warnjth  be  free 

To  c(jn)e  after  ;   let  me  see 
Through  the  doorway,  when  1  sii; 
Looking  out,  the  swallows  flit, 
Settling  not  +ill  dayliglit  goes  ; 
Let  lue  Bmell  the  wild  while  roae, 


84  A  DEAD  ySAR. 

Smell  the  woodbiae  and  the  may  ; 
Mark,  upon  a  sunny  day, 
Sated  from  their  blossoms  rise 
Honey-bees  and  butterflies. 
Let  me  hear,  O  !  let  me  hear, 
Sitting?  by  my  buried  year, 
Finches  chirping  to  their  younc. 
And  the  httle  noises  flung 
Out  of  clefts  where  rabbits  play; 
Or  from  falling  water-spray  ; 

And  the  gracious  echoes  woke 
By  man's  work :  the  Woodman's  strol^e, 
Shout  of  shepherd,  whistling  blithS; 
And  the  whetting  of  the  scythe  • 
Let  this  be,  lest  shut  and  furled 
Erom  the  well-beloved  world, 
I  forget  her  yearnings  old, 
And  her  troubles  manifold, 
Strivings  sore,  su 'amissions  mec  t. 
And  my  pulse  no  longer  beat, 
Keeping  time  and  bearing  part 
With  the  pulse  of  her  great  heart. 

"  So  I  swing  open,  door,  and  shade 
Take  me :  1  am  not  afraid. 
For  the  time  will  not  be  long  ^ 
Soon  I  shall  have  waxen  strong — •   •     , 
Strong  enough  my  own  to  win 
From  the  grave  it  lies  within." 

And  I  entered.     On  her  bier 
Quiet  lay  the  buried  year  ; 
1  sat  down  where  I  could  see 
Life  without  and  sunshine  free. 
Death  within.     And  I  between, 
Waited  my  own  heart  to  weaa 


REFLECTIONS.  ?5 


Prom  the  shroud  that  shaded  her 
In  the  rock-hewn  sepulchre — 
Waited  till  the  dead  should  saVf 
"  Heart,  be  free  of  me  this  day  "■ 
Waited  with  a  patient  will — 

And  I  WAIT  BETWEEN  THEM  STILL, 

J  take  the  year  back  to  my  life  and  story, 
The  dead  year  and  say   "I  will  share  in  thy  tomb» 

'  All  the  kings  of  the  nations  lie  in  glory  \ ' 
Cased  in  cedar,  and  shut  in  a  sacred  gloom  ! 
They    reigned    in    their   lifetime  with   sceptro    and 
diadem. 

But  thou  excellest  them  ; 
For  life  doth  make  thy  grave  her  oratory. 

And  thft  crown  is  still  on  thy  browj 
All  the  kings  of  the  nations  lie  in  glory,' 

And  so  dost  thou." 


REFLECTIONS. 
Written  for  the  Portfolio  Society,  July,  1 802. 

LOOKING  OVER  A  GATE  AT  A  POOL  IN  A  laKLn, 

What  change  has  made  the  pastures  sweet 
And  reached  the  daisies  at  my  feet, 

And  cloud  that  wears  a  golden  hem  ? 
This  lovely  Avorld,  the  hills,  the  sward— 
They  all  look  fresh,  as  if  our  Lord 

But  yesterday  had  finished  them. 

And  here's  the  field  with  liglit  aglow  ; 
Dow  fresh  its  boundary  lime-trees  show, 

And  how  its  wet  leaves  trembling  shine  il 
Between  their  trunks  come  through  to  mi- 
The  morning  sparkles  of  the  sea 

Belc^w  the  level  browsing  line. 


86  REFLECTIONS. 


I  see  the  pool  more  clear  by  half 
Than  pools  where  other  waters  launch 

Up  at  the  breasts  of  coot  and  rail. 
There,  as  she  passed  it  on  her  way, 
I  saw  reflected  yesterday 

A  maiden  with  a  milking-jjail. 

There,  neither  slowly  nor  in  haste, 
One  hand  upon  her  slender  waist, 

The  other  lifted  to  her  pail, 
She,  rosy  in  the  morning  li^rht. 
Among  the  water-daisies  white, 

Tiike  some  fair  sloop  appeared  to  sai!. 

Against  her  ankles  as  she  trod 
Tlie  lucky  buttercups  did  nod. 

I  leaned  upon  the  gate  to  see:  _ 

The  sweet  thing  looked,  but  did  not  speat ; 
A  dimple  came  in  either  cheek. 

And  all  my  lieart  was  gone  from  mo. 

Then,  as  I  lingered  on  the  gate, 
And  she  came  up  like  coming  fate, 

I  saw  my  picture  in  her  eyes — 
Clear  dancing  eyes,  more  black  than  sloes, 
Cheeks  hke  the  mountain  pink,  that  growa 

Among  white-headed  n)ajestie8. 

I  said,  "  A  tale  was  made  of  old 
That  I  would  fain  to  thee  unfuld  ; 

Ah  !  let  me — let  me  tell  the  tale." 
But  high  she  held  her  comely  head  ; 
"  I  cannot  heed  it  now,"  she  said. 
"  Fur  carrying  of  the  milking-pail." 

She  laughed.     "What  good  to  make  ado  ? 
1  held  the  gate,  and  she  came  thrutigli, 
And  took  her  homeward  path  anon, 
rrom  the  clear  pool  her  face  had  fled  , 


PP.FLECTTO^r^.  87 


It  rested  on  my  heart  instead. 

Reflected  when  the  maid  was  gone. 

With  happy  youth,  and  work  contend, 
So  sweet  and  stately  on  she  went, 

Rijj:ht  careless  of  the  untold  tale. 
Each  step  she  took  I  loved  her  more, 
And  followed  to  her  dairy  door 

The  maiden  with  the  milking-jjail. 

II. 

For  hearts  where  wakened  love  doth  lurk, 
How  tine,  how  blest  a  thing  is  work  ! 

For  work  does  good  when  reasons  fail — 
Good  ;  yet  the  axe  at  ev-ery  stroke 
The  echo  of  a  name  awoke — 

Her  name  is  Mary  Marti ndale. 

I'm  glad  that  echo  was  not  heard 
Aright  by  other  men  :  a  bird 

Knows  doubtless  what  his  own  notes  tell  ; 
And  I  know  not ;  but  I  can  say  * 

I  felt  as  shame-faced  all  that  day 

As  if  folks  heard  her  name  right  welL 

And  when  the  west  began  to  glow 
1  went — I  could  not  choose  but  go — 

To  that  same  dairy  on  the  hill ; 
And  while  sweet  Mary  moved  about 
Witliiii,  1  came  to  her  without, 

And  leaned  upon  the  window-sill. 

The  garden  border  where  I  stood 

Was  sweet  with  pinks  and  southern- wood. 

I  spoke — her  answer  seemed  to  fail ; 
I  smelt  the  pinks — I  could  not  see  ; 
The  dusk  came  down  and  sheltered  me, 

3^nd  in  the  dusk  she  heard  my  tale. 


88  THE  LETTER  L. 

And  what  is  left  that  I  should  tell  ? 
1  bpfjfied  a  kiss,  1  pleaded  well : 

The  rosebud  lips  did  long  decline  ; 
But  yet  I  think,  I  think  'tis  true, 
That  leaned  at  last  into  the  dew. 

One  little  instant  they  were  mine. 

O  life  \  how  dear  thou  hast  become  : 
She  laughed  at  dawn,  and  I  was  dumb, 

But  evening  counsels  best  prevail. 
Fair  shine  the  blue  that  o'er  her  spreads, 
Green  be  the  pastures  where  she  treads, 

The  maiden  with  the  milking-pail  I 


THE  LETTER  L. 

ABSENT. 

Wr  sat  on  grassy  slopes  that  meet  ' 
With  sudden  dip  the  level  strand  ; 

Th<^  trees  hung  overhead — our  feet 
Were  on  the  sand. 

Two  silent  girls,  a  thoughtful  man. 
We  sunned  ourselves  in  open  light. 

And  felt  such  April  airs  as  fan 
The  Isle  of  Wight ; 

And  smelt  the  wall-flower  in  the  crag 
Whereon  that,  dainty  waft  had  fed. 

Wiiich  made  the  bell-hung  cowslip  wag 
Her  delicate  head  ; 

And  let  alighting  jackdaws  fleet 
Adown  it  opened-winged,  and  pass 

Till  they  could  touch  with  outstretched  feet 
The  warmed  grass. 


THE  LETTER  L.  59 


The  happy  wave  ran  up  and  rang 

Like  service  bells  a  long  way  ofTj 
And  down  a,  little  freshet  sprang 

From  mossy  trough. 

And  splashed  into  a  rain  of  spray 
And  fretted  on  with  daylight's  loEr^ 

Because  so  many  blue-bells  lay 
Leaning  across. 

Bluf'  martins  gossiped  in  the  sun, 

And  pairs  of  chattering  daws  flew  by. 

And  sailing  brigs  rocked  softly  on 
In  company. 

Wild  cherry  boughs  above  ns  spread 

The  whitest  shade  was  ever  seen, 
And  flicker,  flicker,  came  and  fled 

Sun-spots  between. 

Bees  murmured  in  the  milk-white  bloom 
As  babes  will  sigh  for  deep  content 

When  their  sweet  hearts  for  peace  make  room, 
As  given,  not  lent. 

2ind  we  saw  on  :  we  said  no  word. 
And  one  was  lost  in  musings  rare. 

One  buoyant  as  the  waft  that  stirred 
Her  shining  hair. 

His  eyes  were  bent  upon  the  sand, 
Unfathomed  deeps  within  tlieiii  lay; 

A  slender  rod  was  in  his  hand — 
A  hazel  spray. 

Her  eyes  were  resting  on  his  face, 

As  shyly  glad  by  stealth  to  glean 
Impressions  of  his  numiy  grace 

And  guarded  mien  ; 


90  THE  LETTER  L. 


The  mouth  with  steady  sweetness  set, 

And  eyes  conveying  unaware 
The  distant  hint  of  some  regret 

That  harbored  there. 

She  gazed,  and  in  the  tender  flush 
Tliat  made  her  face  like  roses  blown, 

And  in  the  radiance  and  the  hush, 
Her  thought  was  sliown. 

It  was  a  happy  thing  to  sit 

So  near,  nor  mar  his  reverie ; 
She  looked  not  for  a  part  in  it, 

So  meek  was  she. 

But  it  was  solace  for  her  eyes, 

And  for  lier  heart,  that  yearned  to  him, 
To  watch  apart  in  loving  wise 

Those  musings  dnu. 

Lost — lost,  and  gone  !     Tlie  Pelliam  woods 
Were  full  of  doves  that  cooed  at  ease  j 

The  orchis  filled  her  purple  hoods 
For  dainty  bees. 

He  heard  not  ;  all  the  delicate  air 
Was  fi'esh  with  falling  watt  r-si)ray  ; 

It  mattered  not — he  was  not  there, 
But  far  away. 

Till  with  the  hazel  in  his  hand, 

Still  drowned  in  thought,  it  thud  befell  ; 
He  drew  a  letter  on  the  sand — 

The  letter  L. 

And  looking  on  it,  straiglit  there  wrought 
A  ruddy  Hush  about  his  brow  ; 

His  letter  woke  him  :  absent  thought 
Rushed  homewcard  now. 


TirE  LETTER  L.  91 

And,  half-abashed,  his  hasty  touch 

Effaced  it  witli  a  tell-tale  care, 
As  if  his  action  had  been  much, 

And  not  his  air. 

And  she  ?  she  watched  his  open  palm 
Smooth  out  the  letter  from  the  sand, 

And  rose,  with  aspect  almost  calm, 
And  filled  her  hand 

With  cherry  bloom  :  and  moved  away 

To  gather  wild  forget-me-not, 
And  let  her  errant  footsteps  stray 

To  one  sweet  spot, 

As  if  she  coveted  the  fair 

White  lining  of  the  silver  weed. 
And  cuckoo-pint  that  shaded  there 

Empurpled  seed. 

She  had  not  feared,  as  I  divine. 

Because  she  had  not  hoped.     Alas  I 
The  sorrow  of  it  1  for  that  sign 

Came  but  to  pass  ; 

And  yet  it  robbed  her  of  the  right 
To  give,  who  looked  not  to  receive. 

And  made  her  blush  in  love's  desuito 
That  she  should  grieve. 

A  shai)e  in  wliite,  she  turned  to  gaze  ; 

Fler  eyes  wjre  shaded  with  lier  liana, 
And  half-way  up  the  winding  ways 

We  saw  her  stand. 

Green  hollows  of  the  fringi-d  clifT, 
Red  rocks  that  under  waters  show. 

Blue  reaches,  and  a  sailing  slali, 
Were  spread  below. 


92  THE  LETTER  L. 

She  stood  to  gaze,  perhaps  to  sigh, 
Perhaps  to  think  ;  but  who  can  tell 

How  heavy  on  her  heart  must  lie 
The  letter  L  I 


She  came  anon  with  quiet  grace  ; 

And  "  What,"  she  murmured,  "silent  )f^t !  " 
Be  answered,  "  'Tis  a  haunted  place, 

And  spell-beset. 

''  O  speak  to  us,  and  break  the  spell  I '' 
"  The  spell  is  broken,"  she  replied. 

"  I  crossed  the  running  brook,  it  fell. 
It  could  not  bide. 

"  And  I  have  brought  a  budding  world 

Of  orchis  spires  and  daisies  rank. 
And  ferny  plumes  but  half  uncurled, 

From  yonder  bank ; 

"  And  I  shall  weave  of  them  a  crown, 
And  at  the  well-head  launch  it  free, 

That  so  the  brook  may  float  it  down, 
And  out  to  sea. 

"  There  may  it  to  some  English  hands 
From  fairy  meadow  seem  to  come  ; 

The  fairyest  of  fairy  lands — 
The  land  of  home." 

"  Weave  on,"  he  said,  and  as  she  wove 
We  told  how  currents  in  the  deep, 

'.Vith  branches  from  a  lemon  grove. 
Blue  bergs  will  sweep. 

And  messages  from  shipwrecked  folk 
Will  navigate  the  moon-led  main. 

And  painted  boards  of  splintered  oak 
Their  port  regain. 


THE  LETTER  L.  93 


Then  floated  out  by  vagrant  thought, 

My  soul  beheld  on  torrid  sand 
Th3  wasteful  water  set  at  naught 

Man's  skilful  hand, 

And  suck  out  gold-dust  from  the  box, 
And  wash  it  down  in  weedy  whirls, 

And  split  the  wine-keg  on  the  rocks, 
And  lose  the  pearls, 

"Ah  1  why  to  tliat  which  needs  it  not," 
M*^thought,  "  should  costly  things  be  given  'i 

D<J\v  iiinch  is  wasted,  wreckiid,  forgot, 
On  this  side  heaven  !  " 

i3o  musing,  did  mine  ears  awake 
To  maiden  tones  of  sweet  r<>serve, 

And  manly  speech  that  seemed  to  male 
The  steady  curve 

Of  lips  that  uttered  it  defer 

Their  guard,  and  soften  for  the  thouj  ht: 
iShe  listened,  and  his  talk  with  her 

Was  fancy  fraught. 

"There  is  not  much  in  liberty"  — 
With  doubtful  pauses  he  began  ; 

A  id  said  to  her  and  said  to  me, 
''There  was  a  man — 

"  There  was  a  man  who  dreamed  one  right 
T^at  his  dead  father  came  to  hini. 

And  said.  whcMi  fire  was  low,  and  light 
Was  burning  dim — 

*' '  Why  vagrant  thus,  my  sometime  pride. 
Unloved,  unloving,  wilt  thou  roam? 

Sure  home  is  best !  '     The  son  replied, 
'  1  have  no  home.' 


94  THE  LETTER  L. 


"  '  Shall  net  I  speak  ?  '  his  father  said, 
'  Who  early  chose  a  youthful  \vM(^. 

Aud  worked  for  her,  and  with  her  ieC 
My  happy  life. 

"  '  Ay,  I  will  speak,  for  I  was  young 
As  thou  art  now.  when  I  did  hold 

The  prattling  sweetness  of  thy  touguo 
Dearer  than  gold  ; 

**  '  And  rosy  from  thy  noonday  sleep 
Would  bear  thee  to  admiring  kin, 

And  all  thy  pretty  looks  would  keep 
My  heart  within. 

"  *  Then  after,  'mid  thy  young  allies — 
For  thee  ambition  flushed  my  brov/ — - 

I  coveted  the  schoolboy  prize 
Far  more  than  thou. 

"  *  I  thought  for  thee,  I  thought  for  ail 
My  gamesome  imps  that  round  me  grew  ; 

The  dews  of  blessing  heaviest  fall 
Where  care  falls  too. 

"  '  And  I  that  sent  my  boys  away, 
In  youtlaful  strength  to  earn  their  bread, 

And  died  before  the  hair  was  gray 
Upon  my  head — 

*'  •  I  say  to  thee,  though  free  from  care, 

A  lonely  lot,  an  aimless  life, 
The  crowning  comfort  is  not  there — 

Son,  take  a  wife.' 

'"  Father  beloved,'  the  son  replied, 
And  failed  to  gather  to  his  breast, 

With  arms  in  darkness  searching  wida. 
The  formless  guest. 


THE  LETTER  L.  95 


"  '  I  aiu  but  free,  as  sorrow  is, 

To  dry  lier  tears,  to  laugh,  to  talk  ; 

And  free,  as  sick  men  are,  I  wis, 
To  rise  aud  walk. 

*' '  And  free,  as  poor  men  are,  to  buy 
If  they  have  naught  wherewith  to  pay  ; 

?Jor  hope  the  debt,  before  they  die. 
To  wipe  away. 

"  '  What  'vails  it  there  are  wives  to  wfn. 
And  faithful  hearts  for  those  to  yearii„ 

Who  Ihid  not  aiiglit  thereto  aian 
To  make  retuj  u  ? 

"  '  Shall  he  take  much  who  little  givcb 

And  dwells  in  spirit  far  away, 
■"^hen  she  that  in  his  presence  lives, 

Doth  never  stray, 

"  '  But,  waking,  guideth  as  beseeirip 
The  happy  house  in  order  trim, 

And  tends  her  babes  ;  and,  sleeping,  dreams 
Of  them  and  him  ? 

"  '  O  base,  O  cold,'  "  —while  thus  ho  .^pake 
The  dream  broke  off,  the  vision  fl«Q  \ 

He  carried  on  his  speech  awake, 
And  sighing  said — 

•'  '  I  had — ah,  happy  man  ! — I  liad 

A  procicus  jewel  in  my  breast, 
And  while  I  kept  it  I  was  glad 

At  work,  at  rest  ! 

-'  '  Call  it  a  heart,  a.nd  call  it  strong 
As  upward  stroke  of  eagle's  wing  ; 

Then  call  it  weak,  you  shall  not  wrong 
I'he  beating  ihiut;. 


06  THE  LETTER  L, 

'•  '  In  tanscles  of  the  junp:le  reed, 
Whose  heats  are  lit  with  tiger  eyes, 

111  shii)vvre(tk  drifting  with  the  weed 
'Neatli  rainy  skies, 

"' '  Still  youthful  manhood,  fresh  and  keen, 
At  danger  gazed  with  awed  delight, 

As  if  sea  would  not  drown,  1  ween, 
Nor  serpent  bite. 

"  '  T  had — ah,  happy  !  hut  'tis  gone. 
The  priceless  jewel  ;  one  came  by, 

And  saw  and  stood  awhile  to  con 
Witli  curious  eye, 

"  '  And  wished  for  it,  and  faintly  smiled 
Prom  under  lashes  black  as  doom, 

With  subtle  sweetness,  tender,  mild, 
Tiiat  did  illume 

"'  The  perfect  face,  and  shed  on  it 
A  charm,  half  feeling,  half  surprise, 

And  brim  with  dreams  the  exquisite 
Brown  blessed  eyes. 

"  '  Was  it  for  this,  no  more  but  this, 
I  took  and  laid  it  in  her  hand, 

By  dimi)les  ruled,  to  hint  subuiiss, 
By  frown  unmanned  ? 

"  '  It  was  for  this — and  O  farewell 
The  fearless  foot,  the  present  iiiind, 

And  steady  will  to  breast  the  swea 
And  face  the  wind  1 

"  *  I  gave  the  jewel  from  luy  breast. 
She  played  with  it  a  little  while 

As  I  sailed  down  into  the  west, 
Ped  by  her  smiie  ; 


THE  LETTER  L.  97 


"  '  Then  weary  of  it — far  from  land, 

With  sij;hs  as  deep  as  destiny, 
She  let  it  drop  from  her  fair  hand 

Into  the  sea, 

"  *  And  watched  it  sink  ;  and  I — and  I, — 
What  shall  I  do,  for  all  is  vain  ? 

No  wave  will  bring,  no  gold  will  buyp 
No  toil  attain  ; 

"  *  Nor  any  diver  reach  to  raise 

My  jewel  from  the  blue  abyss  ; 
Or  could  they,  stiil  I  should  but  praise 

Their  work  amiss. 

'* '  Thrown,  thrown  awav  !     But  I  lovo  vet 
The  fair,  fair  haucl  which  did  the  deed  : 

That  wayward  sweetness  to  forget 
Were  bitter  meed. 

"  '  No,  let  it  lie,  and  let  the  wave 

Roll  over  it  for  evermore  ; 
Whelmed  where  the  sailor  hath  his  errave — 

The  sea  her  store. 

"  '  My  heart,  my  sometime  happy  heart  I 
And  C)  for  once  let  mo  compliiin, 

1  must  forego  life's  better  part — 
Man's  dearer  gain. 

"  '  I  worked  afar  that  I  might  rear 
A  peaceful  home  on  English  soil  j 

1  labored  for  the  gold  and  ^ear — 
I  loved  my  toil. 

"  '  Forever  in  my  spirit  spake 
The  natural  whisper,  "  Well  'twill  be 

When  loring  wife  and  children  break 
Their  bread  with  thee  !  " 

7 


98  THE  LETTER  L. 


"  *  The  gathered  fcold  is  turned  to  dross, 

The  wife  hath  faded  into  air, 
My  heart  is  thrown  away,  my  loss 

I  cannot  spare. 

'•  •  Not  spare  unsated  thought  her  fool— ^ 

No,  not  one  rustle  of  the  fold, 
Nor  scent  of  eastern  sandalwood, 

Nor  gleam  of  gold  ; 

"  '  Nor  quaint  devices  of  the  shawl. 
Par  less  the  drooping  lashes  meek  ; 

The  gracious  figure,  lithe  and  tall, 
The  dimpled  cheek  ; 

•'  *  And  all  the  wonders  of  her  eyeS; 

And  sweet  caprices  of  her  air, 
Albeit,  indignant  reason  cries. 

Fool  !  have  a  care. 

"  '  Fool  !  join  not  madness  to  mistake  : 
Thou  knowest  she  loved  thee  not  a  whit ; 

Only  that  she  thy  hoart  might  break — 
She  wanted  it, 

"  *  Only  the  conquered  thing  to  chain 
So  fast  that  none  might  set  it  free, 

Nor  other  woman  there  might  reign 
And  comfort  thee, 

"  '  Robbed,  robbed  of  life's  illusions  swo^t ; 

Love  dead  outside  her  closed  door, 
And  passion  fainting  at  her  feet 

To  wake  no  more  ; 

'  '  What  canst  thou  give  that  unknown  'brid© 
Whom  thou  didst  work  for  in  the  waste. 

Ere  fated  love  was  born,  and  cried— 
Was  dead,  uiigraceui' 


THE  LETTER  L.  99 

"  '  No  more  but  this,  the  partial  care, 

The  natural  kindness  for  its  own, 
The  trust  that  waxeth  unaware. 

As  worth  is  known  : 

"  'Observance,  and  complacent  thought 

Indulgent,  and  the  honor  due 
That  many  another  man  has  brought 

Who  brought  love  too. 

"  '  Nay,  then,  forbid  it,  Heaven  ! '  he  said, 
'  The  saintly  vision  fades  from  me ; 

0  bands  and  chains  1    I  cannot  wed — 
I  am  not  free.'  " 

With  that  he  raised  his  face  to  view  ; 

"  What  think  you,"  asking,  "  of  my  taie  ? 
And  was  he  right  to  let  the  dew 

Of  murn  exhale, 

"  And  burdened  in  the  noontide  sun, 
Tlie  grateful  shade  of  home  torego — 

Could  he  be  right — I  ask  as  one 
Who  fain  would  know  'i"' 

He  spoke  to  her  and  spoke  to  me  ; 

The  rebel  rose-hue  dyed  her  cheek  ; 
The  woven  crown  lay  on  her  knee  ; 

She  would  not  speak. 

And  I  with  doubtful  pause — averse 
To  let  occasion  drift  away — 

1  answered — "  if  his  case  were  worse 
Than  word  can  say, 

"  Time  is  a  liealer  of  sick  liearts, 
And  women  have  been  known  to  choose,  ^ 

With  purpose  to  allay  their  smarts, 
Aud  tend  their  bruise, 


lOO  THE  LETTER  L. 

"  These  for  themselves.     Content  to  give, 
In  their  own  lavish  love  complete, 

Taking  for  sole  prerogative 
Their  tendance  sweet. 

"  Such  meeting  in  their  diadem 
Of  crowning  love's  ethereal  fire, 

IliiJiself  he  robs  Avho  robbeth  them 
Of  their  desire. 

"Therefore  the  man  who,  dreaming,  cried. 

Against  his  lot  that  evensong; 
I  judge  him  honest,  and  decide 

That  he  was  wrong." 

"  When  I  am  judged,  ah,  may  my  fate," 
lie  whispered,  "  in  thy  code  be  read  I 

Be  thou  both  judge  and  advocate." 
Tlien  turned,  he  said — 

"  Fair  weaver  !  "  touching,  while  he  spoke 
The  woven  crown,  the  weaving  hand, 

"  And  do  you  this  decree  revoke, 
Or  may  it  stand  'i 

"This  friend,  you  ever  think  her  right — 
She  is  not  wrong,  then  ?  "     Soft  and  low 

The  little  trembling  word  took  flight: 
She  answered,  "  No." 


PRFSKNT. 


A  TTipncio",-?  '-vhere  the  grass  was  deep,' 
Rich,  square,  and  golden  to  the  viow, 

A  belt  of  elms  with  level  sweep 
About  It  gicw. 


THE  LETTER  Z.  roi 


The  sun  beat  down  on  it,  the  line 

Of  shade  was  clear  beneath  the  trees  j 

There,  by  a  clustering  eglantine, 
We  sat  at  ease. 

And  O  the  buttercups  !  that  field 

O'  the  cloth  of  gold,  where  pennons  swam- 
Where  France  set  up  his  lilied  shield. 

His  oriflamb, 

And  Henry's  lion-standard  rolled  : 
What  was  it  to  their  matchless  sheen, 

Their  million  million  drops  of  gold 
Among  the  green  I 

Wo  sat  at  ease  in  peaceful  trust, 
For  he  had  written,  "  Let  us  meet ; 

My  wife  grew  tired  of  smoke  and  dust, 
And  London  heat, 

"  And  I  have  found  a  quiet  grange. 
Set  back  in  meadows  sloping  west. 

And  there  our  little  ones  can  range 
And  she  can  rest. 

*'  Come  down,  that  we  may  show  the  view, 
And  she  may  hear  your  voice  again. 

And  talk  her  woman's  talk  with  you 
Along  the  lane." 

Since  he  had  drawn  with  listless  hand 
The  letter,  six  long  years  had  lied, 

And  winds  had  blown  about  the  sand. 
And  they  were  wed. 

Two  rosy  urchins  near  him  played, 

Or  watched,  entranced,  the  shapely  ships 

That  with  his  knife  for  them  he  made 
Of  eider  ali]Jb. 


I02  THE  LETTER  L. 


■1 


And  where  the  flowers  were  thickest  shed 
Eacli  blossom  Uke  a  burnished  gem, 

A  creeping  baby  reared  its  head, 
And  cooed  at  them. 

And  calm  was  on  the  father's  face, 
And  love  was  in  the  mother's  eyes  ; 

She  looked  and  listened  from  her  place, 
In  tender  wise. 

She  did  not  need  to  raise  her  voice 

Tliat  they  might  hear,  she  sat  so  nigh  ; 

Yet  we  could  speak  when  'twas  our  choice, 
And  soft  reply. 

Holding  our  quiet  talk  apart 

Of  household  things  ;  till,  all  unsealed^ 
The  guarded  outworks  of  the  heart 

Began  to  yield  ; 

And  much  that  prudence  will  not  dip 
The  pen  to  fix  and  send  away. 

Passed  safely  over  from  the  lip 
That  summer  day. 

"  I  should  be  happy,"  with  a  look 
Towards  her  husband  where  he  lay, 

Lost  in  the  pages  of  his  book. 
Soft  did  she  say  ; 

"  1  am,  and  yet  no  lot  below 
For  one  whole  day  eludeth  care  ; 

To  marriage  all  the  stories  flow, 
And  finish  there  : 

"  As  if  with  marriage  came  the  end. 
The  entrance  into  settled  rest, 

The  calm  to  which  love's  tossings  tend, 
The  quiet  breast. 


THE  LETTER  L.  103 


"  For  ine  love  played  the  low  preludes, 
Yet  life  began  but  with  the  ring, 

Such  infinite  solicitudes 
Around  it  cling. 

"  I  did  not  for  my  heart  divine 
lier  destiny  so  meek  to  grow  ; 

The  higher  nature  matched  with  mine 
Will  have  it  so. 

"  Still  I  consider  it,  and  still 

Acknowledge  it  my  master  made, 

Above  me  by  the  steadier  will 
Of  naught  afraid. 

"  Above  me  by  the  candid  speech  : 
The  temperate  judgment  of  its  own  ; 

The  keener  thoughts  that  grasp  and  reach 
At  thiiigis  unknown. 

"  Hut  I  look  up  and  he  looks  down, 
And  thus  our  married  eyes  can  meet ; 

Unclouded  his,  and  clear  of  frown, 
Aud  gravely  sweet. 

"  And  yet,  O  good,  O  wise  and  true ! 

1  would  for  all  my  fealty. 
That  I  could  be  as  much  to  you 

As  you  to  me  ; 

"  And  knew  the  dee-p  secure  content 
Of  wives  who  have  been  hardly  won 

And,  long  petitioned,  gave  assent. 
Jealous  of  none. 

"  But  proudly  sure  in  all  the  earth 
No  other  in  that  homage  shares, 

Nor  other  wouian's  face  or  worth 
Ib  piizt-'d  as  luoiiiS." 


104  THE  LETTER  L. 

I  said  :   "  And  yet  no  lot  helow 
For  one  wfiole  day  eludtth  care. 

Your  thought."     She  answered,  "  Even  so. 
I  would  beware 

"  Regretful  questionings  ;  be  sure 
That  very  seldom  do  they  rise, 

I^or  for  myself  do  I  endure — 
I  sympathize. 

"  For  once  " — she  turned  away  her  head, 
Across  the  grass  she  swept  her  hand — 

"There  was  a  letter  once,"  she  said,  . 
"  Upon  the  sand." 

•*  There  was,  in  truth,  a  letter  writ 
On  sand,"  I  said,  "  and  swept  from  view  ; 

But  that  same  hand  which  fashioned  it 
Is  given  to  you. 

*'  Efface  the  letter  ;  wherefore  keep 
An  image  which  the  sands  forego  ?  " 

*'  Albeit  that  fear  had  seemed  to  sleep," 
She  answered  low, 

'*  I  could  not  choose  but  wake  it  now  ; 

For  do  but  turn  aside  your  face, 
A  house  on  yonder  hilly  brow 

Your  eyes  may  trace. 

"  The  chestnut  shelters  it  ;  ah  me, 
That  I  should  have  so  faint  a  heart ! 

\\\\x  y ester  eve,  as  by  the  sea 
1  sat  apart, 

"  I  heard  a  name,  I  saw  a  hand 

Of  passing  stranger  point  that  way — 

And  wiil  lie  meet  her  on  the  strand, 
When  late  we  stray  t 


THE  LETTER  L.  105 


"  For  she  is  come,  for  she  is  there, 
I  heard  it  in  the  dusk,  and  heard 

Admiring  words,  tliat  named  her  fair, 
But  little  stirred 

"  By  beauty  of  the  wood  and  wave. 
And  weary  of  an  old  man's  sway  I 

For  it  was  sweeter  to  enslave 
Than  to  obey." 

— The  voice  of  one  that  near  us  stood. 

The  rustle  of  a  silken  fold, 
A  scent  of  eastern  sandalwood, 

A  gleam  of  gold  1 

A  lady  !     In  the  narrow  space 

Between  the  husband  and  the  wife. 

But  nearest  him — she  showed  a  face 
Witli  dangers  rife; 

A  subtle  smile  that  dimpling  Hod, 
As  night-black  lashes  rose  and  fell : 

I  looked,  and  to  myself  I  said, 
"  The  Letter  L." 

He,  too,  looked  up,  and  with  arrest 
Of  breath  and  motion  held  his  gaze,  . 

Nor  cared  to  hide  within  liis  breast 
His  deep  amaze  ; 

Nor  spoke  till  on  lier  near  .advance 
His  (lark  check  Hushed  a  ruddier  hue  : 

And  with  his  change  of  countenance 
Hers  altered  too. 

"  Lenore  I "  his  voice  was  like  the  cry 
Of  one  entreating  ;  and  he  said 

But  that — tlien  paustMl  with  such  a  sigh 
As  mourns  tiie  dead. 


lo6  THE  LETTER  L. 


And  seated  near,  with  no  demur 
Of  bashful  doubt  she  silence  broke, 

Though  I  alone  could  answer  her 
When  first  she  spoke. 

She  looked  :  her  eyes  were  beauty's  own  ; 

She  shed  their  sweetness  into  his  ; 
Nor  spared  the  married  wife  one  moan 

Tliat  bitterest  is. 

She  spoke,  and,  lo,  her  loveliness 
Methought  she  damaged  with  her  tongue  : 

And  every  sentence  made  it  less, 
So  false  they  rung. 

The  rallying  voice,  the  light  demand, 

Half  flippant,  half  unsatisfied; 
Thfe  vanity  sincere  and  bland — 

The  answers  wide. 

And  now  her  talk  was  of  the  East, 
And  next  her  talk  was  of  the  sea  ; 

•'  And  has  the  love  for  it  increased 
You  shared  with  mc  ?  " 

He  answered  not,  but  grave  and  still 
With  earnest  eyes  her  face  perused, 

And  locked  his  lips  Avitli  steady  will, 
As  one  that  mused — 

That  mused  and  wondered.     Why  liis  gazo 
Should  dwell  on  her,  methouglit,  was  plain  ; 

But  reason  that  should  wonder  raise 
I  sought  in  vain. 

And  near  and  near  the  children  drew, 

Attracted  by  her  rich  array, 
And  gems  that  trembling  into  view 

Like  raindrops  lay. 


THE  LETTER  L.  lOj 


lie  spoke  :  tue  wife  her  baby  took 
And  pressed  the  little  face  to  hers  ; 

What  pain  soe'er  her  bosom  shook, 
What  jealous  stirs 

Might  stab  her  heart,  she  hid  them  so, 
The  cooing  babe  a  veil  supplied  ; 

And  if  she  listened  none  might  know 
Or  if  she  sighed  ; 

Or  if,  forecasting  gi-ief  and  care. 
Unconscious  solace  thence  she  drew 

And  lulled  her  babe,  and  unaware 
Lulled  sorrow  too. 

The  lady,  she  interpreter 

For  looks  or  language  wanted  none, 
If  yet  dominion  stayed  with  her — 

So  lightly  won  : 

If  yet  the  heart  she  wounded  sore 
Could  yearn  to  her,  and  let  her  see 

The  homage  that  was  evermore 
Disloyalty  ; 

If  sign  would  yield  that  it  had  bled, 
Or  rallied  from  the  faithless  blow. 

Or  sick  or  sullen  stooped  to  wed, 
She  craved  to  know. 

Kow  dreamy  deep,  now  sweetly  keen, 
Her  asking  eyes  would  round  him  shine; 

But  guarded  lips  and  settled  mien 
Refused  the  sign. 

And  unbeguiled  and  unbetrayed, 
The  wonder  yet  within  his  breast. 

It  seemed  a  watchful  part  he  played 
Against  her  tiuebt. 


Io8  THE  LETTER  L. 


Until  with  accent  of  recrret 

She  touched  upon  ilie  jjast  once  more, 
As  if  she  dared  hiiu  to  forget 

His  dream  of  yore. 

And  words  of  Httle  weight  let  fall 
Tlie  fancy  of  the  lower  mind  ; 

IIow  waxing  life  must  needs  leave  all 
Its  best  behind ; 

How  he  had  said  that  "  he  would  fain 
(One  morning  on  the  halcyon  sea) 

That  life  would  at  a  stand  remain 
Eternally  ; 

**  And  sails  be  mirrored  in  the  deep, 
As  then  they  were  for  evermore, 

And  happy  spirits  wake  and  sleep 
Afar  from  shore  : 

"  The  well-contented  heart  be  fetl 
Ever  as  then,  and  all  the  world 

(It  were  not  small)  unshadowed 
When  sails  were  furled. 

•*  Your  words" — a  pause,  and  quietly 
With  touch  of  calm  self-ridicule  : 

"  It  may  be  so — for  then,"  said  he, 
"  1  was  a  fool." 

With  tliat  he  took  his  book,  and  left 
An  awkward  silence  to  my  care. 

That  soon  I  filled  with  questions  deft 
And  debonair  ; 

And  slid  into  an  easy  vein, 
The  favorite  picture  of  the  year  ; 

The  grouse  upon  her  lord's  domaiu — 
The  salmon  weir  ; 


THE  LETTER  L.  109 


Till  she  could  feign  a  sudden  thought 
Upon  neglected  guests,  and  rise 

And  make  us  her  adieux,  with  naught 
In  her  dark  eyes 

Acknowledging  or  shame  or  pain  ; 

But  just  unveiling  for  our  vieV7 
A  little  smile  of  still  disdain 

As  she  withdrew. 

Then  nearer  did  the  sunshine  creep. 

And  warmer  came  the  wafting  breeze  ; 
The  little  babe  was  fast  asleep 

On  mother's  knees. 

Fair  was  the  face  that  o'er  it  leant. 

The  cheeks  with  beauteous  blushes  dyed  ; 
The  downcast  lashes,  shyly  bent,  • 

That  failed  to  hide 

Some  tender  shame.     She  did  not  see  ; 

She  felt  his  eyes  that  would  not  stir  ; 
She  looked  upon  her  babe,  and  he 

So  looked  at  her. 

So  grave,  so  wondering,  so  content. 

As  one  new  waked  to  conscious  life, 
Whose  sudden  joy  with  fear  is  blent, 

lie  said,  "  My  wife." 

"My  wife,  how  beautiful  you  are  !  " 
Then  closer  at  her  side  recliiieil ; 

"  The  bold  brown  woman  from  afar 
Comes,  to  me  blind. 

"And  by  conii)arison  1  see 

The  majesty  of  matron  grace, 
And  learn  how  pure,  how  fair  can  be 

lly  own  wife's  face  : 


110  THE  LETTFP  T.. 


"  Pure  with  all  faithful  passion,  fair 
With  tender  smiles  that  come  and  goj 

And  comforting  as  April  air 
After  the  snow. 

"  Fool  that  I  was!  my  spirit  frets 
And  marvels  at  the  humbling  truth. 

That  I  have  deigned  to  spend  regreto 
On  my  bruised  youth. 

"  Its  idol  mocked  thee,  seated  nigh, 
And  shamed  me  for  the  mad  mistake  *, 

I  thank  my  God  he  could  deny. 
And  she  forsake. 

"  Ah,  who  am  I,  that  God  hath  savp'1 

Me  from  the  doom  I  did  desire. 
And  crossed  the  lot  myself  had  craved; 

Tj  set  me  higher  ? 

"  What  have  I  done  that  He  should  bow 
From  heaven  to  choose  a  wife  for  me  ? 

And  what  deserved,  he  should  endoAV 
My  home  with  thee  ? 

"  My  wife  !  "     With  that  she  turned  her  itKse 
To  kiss  the  hand  about  her  neck  ; 

And  I  went  down  and  sought  the  place 
Where  leaped  the  beck — 

The  busy  beck,  that  still  would  run 

And  fall,  and  falter  its  refrain  ; 
And  pause  and  shimmer  in  the  sun, 

And  fall  again. 

It  led  me  to  the  sandy  shore, 

We  sang  together,  it  and  T — 
"  The  daylight  comes,  the  dark  is  e'er. 

The  shadows  fly.'" 


I  lost  it  on  the  sandy  shore, 

"  O  wife  1  "  its  latest  murmurs  fell, 

*'  O  wife,  be  glad,  and  fear  no  more 
The  letter  L," 


THE  HIGH  TIDE  ON  THE  COAST  OF  LINCOLN- 
SHIRE. 

(1571.) 

Thk  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry  towor, 

The  ringers  ran  by  two,  by  three ; 
"  Pull,  if  ye  never  pulled  before  ; 

Good  ringers,  pull  your  best,"  quoth  tic 
'  Play  uppe,  play  uppe,  O  Boston  belis  1 
Ply  all  your  changes,  all  your  swelle, 

Play  uppe  '  The  Brides  of  Enderby.'  " 

Men  say  it  was  a  stolen  tyde — 

The  Lord  that  sent  it.  He  knows  all  ; 

Ent  in  myne  ears  doth  still  abide 
The  message  that  the  bells  let  fall  : 

And  there  was  naught  of  strange,  beside 

The  flight  of  mews  and/peewits  pied 

By  millions  crouched  on  the  old  sea  \v;iil 


( 


I  sa.t  and  spun  within  the  doore, 

My  thread  break  off,  I  raised  myne  eves  ; 
The  level  sun.  like  ruddy  ore. 

Lay  sinking  in  the  barren  skies  ; ) 
And  dark  against  day's  golden  divith 
She  moved  where  Lindis  wandereth, 
My  Sonne's  faire  w'fe,  Elizabeth. 

"Cusha!  Cusha!  Cusha  !  "  calling, 
Ere  the  early  dews  were  falling, 


3 12  THE  HIGH  TIDE  ON  THE 

Farre  away  I  heard  her  song, 
"Cusha!  Cusha  !  "  all  along  ; 
Where  the  reedy  Lindis  floweth, 

Floweth,  floweth, 
From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth 
Faintly  came  her  milking  song— 

"Cusha!  Cusha!  Cusha!"  calling, 
"  For  the  dews  will  soone  be  falling  ; 
Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow ; 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow  ; 
Come  uppe,  Whitefoot,  come  uppe,  Lightl'uot  % 
Quit  the  stalks  of  parsley  hollow. 

Hollow,  hollow ; 
Come  uppe,  Jetty,  rise  and  follow, 
From  the  clovers  lift  your  head  ; 
Come  uppe,  Whitefoot,  come  uppe,  Lightf(>ot, 
Come  uppe,  Jetty,  rise  and  follow, 
Jetty  to  the  milking  shed." 

If  it  be  long,  ay,  long  ago, 

Wiien  I  beginneto  think  howe  long. 

Againe  I  hear  the  Lindis  How, 

Swift  as  an  arrowe,  sharpe  and  strong; 

And  all  the  aire,  it  seemeth  mee, 

Bin  full  of  floating  VjcIIs  (sayth  shee),  , 

That  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby. 

Alle  fresh  the  level  pasture  lay, 
And  not  a  shadowe  mote  be  seene, 

Save  where  full  fyve  good  miles  away 
The  steeple  towered  from  out  the  greene; 

And  lo  !   the  great  bell  farre  and  wide 

Wa;^  heard  in  all  the  country  side 

That  Saturday  at  eventide. 


COAST  OF  LINCOLNSHIRE.  1 1  ■ 


The  swanherds  where  their  eedfices  are 
Moved  on  in  sunset's  golden  breath, 

The  shepherde  lads  I  heard  afarre, 
And  uiy  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth  ; 

Till  lloating  o'er  the  grassy  sea 

Came  downe  that  kyndl)'  message  free, 

The  "  Brides  of  Mavis  Enderby.' 

Then  some  looked  uppe  into  the  sky, 
And  all  along  where  Lindis  flows 

To  where  the  goodly  vessels  lie, 
And  where  the  lordly  steeple  shows. 

They  sayde,  "  And  why  should  this  thing  be? 

Wliat  danger  lowers  by  land  or  sea  ? 

They  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby  I 

"  For  evil  news  from  Mablethorpe, 
Of  pyrate  galleys  warping  down  ; 
For  shippes  ashore  beyond  the  scorpe, 

They  have  not  spared  to  wake  the  towue  ; 
But  while  the  west  bin  red  to  see, 
And  storms  be  none,  and  pyrates  flee. 
Why  ring  '  The  Brides  of  Enderby  '  ?" 

I  looked  without,  and  lo  !  my  sonne 

Came  riding  downe  with  might  and  main  : 

He  raised  a  shout  as  he  drew  on, 
Till  all  the  welkin  rang  again, 

"  Elizabeth  I  Elizabeth  !  " 

(A  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 

Than  my  Sonne's  wife  Elizabeth.) 

'*  The  olde  sea  wall  (he  cried)  is  downe, 

The  rising  tide  comes  on  apace. 
And  boats  adrift  in  yonder  towne 

Go  sailing  uppe  the  market-place." 
He  shook  as  one  that  looks  on  death  : 
"  God  save  you,  mother  !  "  straight  he  saith  ; 
"  Where  is  my  wife,  Elizabeth  ?  " 

'6 


3  14  THE  HIGH  TIDE  ON  THE 

"  Good  Sonne,  where  Lindis  winds  her  way, 
With  her  two  bairns  I  iiifirked  her  lontr  : 

And  ere  young  bells  be<ranije  To  play 
Afar  I  heard  her  niilkin<?  song." 

He  looked  across  the  grassy  Jea, 

To  right,  to  left,  "  Ho,  Enderby  !  " 

They  rang  "The  Brides  of  Enderby  !  " 

With  that  he  cried  and  beat  his  breast  ; 

For  lo  !  along  the  river's  bed 
A  mighty  eygre  reared  his  crest. 

And  uppe  the  Lindis  raging  sped. 
It  swept  with  thunderous  noises  loud  ; 
Shaped  like  a  curling  snow-white  cloud, 
Or  like  a  demon  in  a  shroud. 

And  rearing  Lindis  backward  pressed 

Shook  all  her  trembling  bankes  aniaine  ; 
Then  madly  at  the  eygre's  breast 

Flung  uppe  her  weltering  walls  again. 
Then  bankes  came  downe  with  ruin  and  rout- 
Then  beaten  foam  flew  round  about — 
Then  all  the  mighty  Hoods  were  out. 

So  farre,  so  fast  the  eygre  drave. 
The  heart  had  hardly  time  to  beat 

Before  a  shallow  seething  wave 
Sobbed  in  the  grasses  at  oure  feet: 

The  feet  had  hardly  time  to  flee 

Heforo  it  brake  against  the  knee, 

And  all  the  world  was  in  the  sea. 

Upon  the  roofe  we  sate  that  night, 
The  noise  of  bells  went  sweeping  by  ; 

I  marked  the  lofty  beacon  light 

Stn-am  fi'om  the  church  tower,  red  and  high- 

A  lurid  mark  and  dread  to  see  ; 

And  awsome  bells  they  were  to  mee, 

That  in  the  dark  rang  "  Enderby." 


CO  AS  T  OF  LINCOLNSHIRE.  W^ 

They  rang  the  sailor  lads  to  guide 

From  roofe  to  roofe  who  fearless  rowed  ; 

And  I — my  sonne  was  at  my  side, 
And  yet  the  ruddy  beacon  glowed  ; 

And  yet  he  moaned  beneath  his  breath, 

"  O  come  in  life,  or  come  in  death  I 

0  lost !  my  love,  Elizabeth." 

And  didst  thou  visit  him  no  more? 

Thou  didst,  thou  didst,  my  daughter  deare  ; 
The  waters  laid  thee  at  his  doore. 

Ere  yet  the  early  dawn  was  clear. 
Thy  pretty  bairns  in  fast  embrace, 
The  lifted  sun  shone  on  thy  face, 
Downe  drifted  to  thy  dwelling-place. 

That  flow  strewed  wrecks  about  the  grass, 
That  ebbe  swept  out  the  flocks  to  sea  ; 

A  fatal  ebbe  and  flow,  alas  ! 
To  mapye  more  than  myne  and  mee : 

But  each  will  mourn  his  own  (she  saith)  ; 

And  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 

Than  my  Sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth. 

1  shall  never  hear  her  more 
By  the  reedy  Lindis  shore, 

"  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  Cusha  !  "  calling, 
Ere  the  early  dews  be  falling  ; 
1  shall  never  hear  her  song, 
*•  Cusha  !  Cuslia  !  "  all  along 
Where  the  stniny  Lindis  floweth, 

(ioeth,  lloweth  ; 
From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth. 
When  the  water  winding  down, 
Onward  floweth  to  the  town. 

I  shall  never  see  her  more 

Where  the  reeds  and  rushes  quiver, 


T  t5         afternoon  at  a  parson  a  ge. 

Shiver,  quiver  ; 
Stand  beside  tlie  sobbing  river 
Sobbing,  throbbing,  in  its  falling 
To  the  sandy  lonesome  shore  \ 
I  shall  never  hear  her  calling, 
"  Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow  ; 
Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow  ; 
Come  uppe,  Whitefoot,  come  uppe,  Lightfoot  j 
Quit  your  pipes  of  parsley  hollow, 

Hollow,  hollow  ; 
Come  uppe,  Lightfoot,  rise  and  follow  ; 

Lightfoot,  Whitefoot, 
Prom  your  clovers  lift  the  head  : 
Come  uppe.  Jetty,  follow,  follow, 
Jetty,  to  the  milking  shed." 


AFTERNOON  AT  A  PARSONAGE. 

(the  parson's  brother,  sister,  and  two 
ciiildrkn.) 

Preface. 

What  wonder  man  should  fail  to  stay 

A  nursling  wafted  from  above, 
The  growth  celestial  come  astray. 

That  tender  growth  whose  name  is  Love  1 

It  is  as  if  high  winds  in  heaven 

Had  shaken  the  celestial  trees, 
And  to  this  earth  below  had  given 

Some  feathered  seeds  from  one  of  these. 

O  perfect  love  that  'dureth  long! 

Dear  growth,  that  shaded  by  the  palms, 
And  breathed  on  by  the  angel's  song, 

Blooms  on  in  heaven's  eternal  calms  I 


AFTERNOON  AT  A  PARSONA GE.  117 


How  great  the  task  to  guard  thee  here, 
Where  wnid  is  rough,  and  frost  is  keen, 

And  all  the  ground  with  doubt  and  fear 
Is  checkered  birth  and  death  between  I 

Space  is  against  thee — it  can  part ; 

Time  is  against  thee — it  can  chill ; 
Words — they  but  render  half  the  heart ; 

Deeds — they  are  poor  to  our  rich 


Merton.       Though    she  had  loved  me,  I  had  nover 

bound 
Her  beauty  to  njy  darkness  ;  that  had  been 
Too  hard  for  her.     Sadder  to  look  so  near 
Into  a  face  all  shadow,  than  to  stand 
Aloof,  and  then  withdraw,  and  afterwards 
Sutfer  foi-getfulness  to  comfort  her. 

I  tliink  so,  and  I  loved  her ;  therefore  I 
Have  no  complaint ;  albeit  she  is  not  mine  ; 
And  yet — and  yet,  withdrawing  I  would  fain 
She  would  have  pleaded  duty — Avould  liave  said 
"  My  father  wills  it ;  "  would  liavo  turned  away, 
As  lingering,  or  unwillingly;  for  then 
She  would  have  done  no  damage  to  the  past : 
Now  she  has  roughly  used  it — flung  it  down 
And  bruslied  its  bloom  away.     If  she  had  said, 
"Sir,  I  liave  {jromiscd  ;    therefore,  lo  !  my  hand" — 
Would  I  have  taken  it?     Ah,  no  !   by  all 
Most  sacred,  no  I 

I  would  for  my  sole  share 
Have  taken  first  her  recollected  blush 
The  day  1  won  her  ;  next  her  shining  tears — 
The  tears  of  our  long  parting  :  and  for  all 
The  rest — her  cry,  her  bitter  heartsick  cry, 
That  day  or  night  (1  know  not  which  it  waa, 


1 1 8  AFTERNOON  AT  A  PARSONAGE. 

The  days  being  always  night),  that  darkest  night, 
When  being  led  to  her  I  heard  her  cry, 
"O  blind!  blind!  blind!" 

Go  with  thy  chosen  mate : 
The  fashion  of  thy  going  nearly  cured 
The  sorrow  of  it.     I  am  yet  so  weak 
That  half  my  thoughts  go  after  tiiee  :  but  not 
tSo  weak  that  I  desire  to  have  it  so. 

Jessie,  seated  at  the  jyi-ano,  sings. 

When  the  dimpled  water  slippeth, 

Full  of  laughter,  on  its  way, 
And  her  wing  the  wagtail  dippeth, 

Running  by  the  brink  at  play  ; 
When  the  poplar  leaves  atremble 

Turn  their  edges  to  the  light, 
And  the  far-up  clouds  resemble 

Veils  of  gauze  most  clear  and  white  ; 
And  the  sunbeams  fall  and  flatter 

Woodland  moss  and  branches  brown, 
And  the  glossy  finches  chatter 

Up  and  down,  up  and  down  : 
Tliough  the  heart  be  not  attending. 

Having  music  of  her  own. 
On  the  grass,  though  meadows  wending, 

It  is  sweet  to  walk  alone. 

When  the  falling  waters  utter 

Something  mournful  on  their  way, 
And  departing  swallows  llutter 

Taking  leave  of  bank  and  brae  ; 
When  the  chaffinch  idly  sitteth 

With  her  mate  upon  the  sheaves. 
And  the  wistful  robin  flitteth 

Over  beads  of  yellow  leaves  j 
When  the  clouds,  like  ghosts  that  ponder 

Evil  fate,  float  by  and  frown. 


AFTERNOOA'  AT  A  PARSONAGE  i  K 


And  the  listless  wind  doth  wander 

Up  and  down,  up  and  down  : 
Though  the  heart  be  not  attending, 

Having  sorrows  of  her  own. 
Through  the  fields  and  fallows  wending. 

It  is  sad  to  walk  alone. 

Merton.     BUnd  !  blind!  blind! 
Oh  !  sitting  in  the  dark  for  evermore, 
And  doing  nothing— jiutting  out  a  hand 
To  feel  what  lies  about  nie,  and  to  say 
Not  "  This  is  blue  or  red,"  but  "This  is  cold, 
And  this  the  sun  is  shining  on,  and  this 
1  know  not  till  they  tell  its  name  to  me." 

0  that  1  might  behold  once  more,  my  God  I 
The  shining  rulers  of  the  night  and  day  ; 
Or  a  star  twinkling;  or  an  almond-tree, 
I'ink  with  her  blossom  and  alive  with  bees. 
Standing  against  the  azure  !     O  my  sight  I 
liost,  and  yet  living  in  the  sunlit  cells 

Of  memory — that  only  lightsome  place 
Where  lingers  yet  the  dayspring  of  my  youth  : 
The  years  of  mourning  for  thy  death  are  long. 

Be  kind,  sweet  memory  !     O  desert  me  not ! 
For  oft  tliou  show'st  me  lucent  opal  seas, 
Fringed    with   their   cocoa-palms,  and    dwarf   red 
crags. 

Whereon  the  placid  moon  doth  "  rest  her  chin  ;  " 
For  oft  by  favor  of  thy  visi tings 

1  feel  the  dimness  of  an  Indian  night, 
And  lo  !   the  sun  is  coining.     Red  as  rust 
Between  the  latticed  blind  his  presence  burus, 
A  ruby  ladder  running  up  the  wall  ; 

And  all  the  dust,  printed  with  pigeons'  feet, 
Is  reddened,  and  the  crows  that  stalk  aueai 


I20  AFTERNOON  AT  A  PARSONAGE. 

Begin  to  trail  for  heat  their  glossy  wings, 

And  the  red  flowers  give  back  at  once  the  dew, 

For  night  is  gone,  and  day  is  born  so  fast, 

And  is  so  strong,  that,  huddled  as  in  flight, 

The  fleeting  darkness  paleth  to  a  shade, 

And  while  she  calls  to  sleep  and  dreams  "  Come  on,' 

Suddenly  waked,  the  sleepers  rub  their  eyos, 

Which  having  opened,  lo  !  she  is  no  more. 


O  misery  and  mourning  I  I  have  felt — 

Yes,  I  have  felt  like  some  deserted  world 

That  God  had  done  with,  and  had  cast  aside 

To  rock  and  stagger  through  the  gulfs  of  space. 

He  never  looking  on  it  any  more — 

Untilled,  no  use,  no  pleasure,  not  desired. 

Nor  lighted  on  by  angels  in  their  flight 

From  heaven  to  happier  planets,  and  the  race 

That  once  had  dwelt  on  it  withdrawn  or  dead. 

Couid   such  a  Avorld  have   hope   that  some    bleat 

day 
God  would  remember  her,  and  fashion  her 
Anew  ? 

Jessie.  What,  dearest  ?     Did  you  speak  to  me? 
Child.  I  think  he  spoke  to  us. 
M.  No,  little  elves, 

You  were  so  quiet  that  I  half  forgot 

Your  neighborhood      What  are  you  doing  there  ? 
F.  Tl:ey  sit  together  on  the  window-mat 

Nursing  their  dolls. 

C.  Yes,  Uncle,  our  new  dolls — 

Our  best  dolls,  that  you  gave  us. 
M.  Did  you  say 

The  afternoon  was  bright  ? 

F.  Yes,  bright  indeed  1 

The  sun  is  on  the  plane-tree,  and  it  flames 

All  rod  acd  orange. 


W PTERNOVN  AT  A  PA RSONA GE.  121 


C.  I  can  see  my  father — 

Look  I  look  !  the  leaves  are  falling  on  his  goAvn. 

M.  Where? 

C.         In  the  churchyard,  Uncle — he  is  gone  ; 
He  passed  behind  the  tower. 

31.  I  heard  a  bell  : 

There  is  a  funeral,  then,  behind  the  church. 

2d  Child.  Are   the  trees  sorry   when   their   leaves 
drop  off? 

Is^  Child.  You  talk  such  silly  words;  —  no,  not  at 
all. 
There  goes  another  leaf. 

2d  Child.  I  did  not  see. 

\st  Child.  Look  !  on  the  grass,  between  the  little 
hills. 
Just  where  they  planted  Amy. 

F.  Amy  died — 

Dear  little  Amy  !  Avhen  you  talk  of  her, 
Say,  she  is  gone  to  heaven. 

2d  Child.  They  planted  her — 

Will  she  come  up  next  year  ? 

\st  Child.  No,  not  so  soon  ; 

But  some  day  God  will  call  her  to  come  up, 
And  then  she  will.     Papa  knows  every  thing — 
He  said  she  would  before  he  planted  her. 

2d  Child.  It  was  at  night  she  went  to  heaven.  Last 
night 
'We  saw  a  star  before  we  went  to  bed. 

\st  Child.  Yes,  Uncle,  did  you  know? 
A  large  bright  star. 
And  at  lier  side  she  had  some  little  <)ries — 
iSouie  young  ones. 

M.  Y'oung  ones  !  no,  my  little  maid, 
Those  stars  are  very  old. 

\st  Child.  Wliat :  all  of  them  ? 

M.  Yes. 

1st  Child.     ()l<ler  than  our  father? 


12  2  AFTERNOON  AT  A  PA RSONA GR. 

M.  Older,  far. 

2d  Child.  They  must  be  tired  of  shining  there  30 
long. 
Perhaps  they  wish  they  might  come  down. 

F.  Perhaps  ! 

Dear  children,  talk  of  what  you  understand. 
Come,  I  must  lift  the  trailing  creepers  up 
That  last  night's  wind  has  loosened. 

1st  Child.  May  we  help  ? 

Aunt,  may  we  help  to  nail  them  ? 

F.  We  shall  see. 

Go,  find  and  bring  the  hammer,  and  some  shreds. 


[Steps  outside  the  window,  lifts  a  branch  and  sings.] 

Should  I  change  my  allegiance  for  rancor 

If  fortune  changos  her  side  ? 
Or  should  I,  like  a  vessel  at  anchor, 

Turn  with  the  turn  of  the  tide  ? 
Lift !  O  lift,  thou  lowering  sky  ; 

An  thou  wilt,  thy  gloom  forego  ! 
An  thou  wilt  not,  he  and  I 

Need  not  part  for  drifts  of  snow. 

M.  [vn'thin].     Lift!  no,  thou    lowering  sky,    thou 
wilt  not  lift — 
Thy  motto  readeth,  "Never." 

Children.  Here  they  are  I 

Here  are  the  nails  I  and  may  we  help  ? 

F.  You  shall, 

If  1  should  want  help. 

\st  Child.     Will  you  want  it  then  : 
Please  want  it — we  like  nailing. 

2d  Child.  Yes,  we  do. 

F.  It  seems  1  ought  to  want  it  ;  hohi  the  bough, 
And  each  may  nail  in  turn. 


AFTERNOON  AT  A  PARSONAGE.  1 23 


Likp  a  daisy  I  was,  near  him  growing:: 

Must  I  move  because  favors  flag, 
And  be  like  a  brown  wall-flower  blowing 

Far  out  of  reach  in  a  crag? 
Lift!  O  lift,  thou  lowering  sky; 

An  thou  canst,  thy  blue  regain  I 
And  thou  canst  not,  he  and  I 

Need  not  part  for  drops  of  rain. 

\st  Child.     Now,  have  we  nailed  enough? 

J.  [trains  the  creepers].     Yes,  you  may  go  ; 
But  do  not  play  too  near  the  churchyard  path. 

31.  [urithin].     Even  misfortune  does  not  strike  so 
near 
As  my  dependence.     O,  in  youth  and  strength 
To  sit  a  timid  cowaid  in  tlie  dark, 
And  fe§l  before  I  set  a  cautious  step  1 
It  is  so  very  dark,  so  far  more  dark 
Than  any  night  that  day  comes  after — night 
In  which  there  would  be  stars,  or  else  at  least 
The  silvered  portion  of  a  sombre  cloud 
Through  which  the  moon  is  plunging. 

J.  [entering],  Mertoul 

M.  Yes. 

J.  Dear  Merton,  did  you  know  that  I  could  hear? 

M.  No:  e'en  my  solitude  is  not  mine  now, 
And  if  1  be  alone  is  ofttimes  doubt. 
Alas!  far  more  than  eyesight  have  1  lost; 
For  manly  courage  drifteth  after  it — 
E'en  as  a  splintered  spar  would  drift  away 
From  some  dismasted  wreck.     Hear,  I  complain — 
Like  a  weak  ailing  woman  1  complain. 

J .  For  the  lirst  time. 

M.  I  cannot  bear  the  dark. 

J.  INfy  lirotherl   you  do  bear  it — bear  it  well — 
Ilave  borne  it  twelve  long  months,  and  not  complained. 


124  AFTERNOON  AT  A  PARSONAGE. 

Comfort  your  heart  with  music  :  all  the  air 

Is   warm  with  sunbeams  where  the  organ  stands. 

You  like  to  feel  them  on  you.     Come  and  play, 

M.  My  fate,  my  fate,  is  lonely  I 

J.  So  it  is — 

I  know  it  is. 

M.  And  pity  breaks  my  heart. 

J.  Does  it,  dear  Merton  ? 

M.  Yes,  I  say  it  does. 

What !  do  you  think  I  am  so  dull  of  ear 
That  I  can  mark  no  changes  in  the  tones 
That  reach  me?     Once  I  liked  not  girlish  pride 
And  that  coy  quiet,  chary  of  reply. 
That  held  me  distant  :  now  the  sweetest  lips 
Open  to  entertain  me — fairest  hands 
Ai-e  proffered  me  to  guide. 

J.  That  is  not  well  ? 

3/.  No:  give  me  coldness,  pride,  or  still  disd-ain, 
Gentle  withdrawal.     Give  me  anything 
l?nt  this — a  fearless,  sweet,  confiding  ease. 
Whereof  I  may  expect,  I  may  exact, 
Considerate  care,  and  have  it — gentle  speech, 
And  have  it.     Give  me  anything  but  this  1 
For  they  who  give  it,  give  it  in  the  faith 
That  I  will  not  misdeem  them,  and  forget 
My  doom  so  far  as  to  perceive  thereby 
Hope  of  a  wife.     They  make  this  thought  too  plain  ; 
They  wound  me — O  they  cut  me  to  the  heart  1 
When  have  1  said  to  any  one  of  them, 
"  I  am  a  blind  and  desolate  man  ; — come  here, 
I  pray  you — be  as  eyes  to  me  ?  "     When  said. 
Even  to  her  whose  pitying  voice  is  sweet 
To  niy  dark  mined  heart,  as  must  be  hands 
Tliat  clasp  a  lifeh)ng  captive's  through  the  grate, 
And  who  will  ever  lend  her  delicate  aid 
To  guide  me,  dark  incumbrance  that  I  am  ! — 
When  h.avH  I  said  to  her,  ''Comforting  voice, 


AFTERNOON  AT  A  PARSON  A  GE.  1 2  5 


Belong:ing  to  a  face  unknown,  I  pray 
Be  uiy  wife's  voice  ?  " 

J.  Never,  my  brother — no, 

You  never  have ! 

M.  What  could  she  think  of  me 

If  I  forgot  myself  so  far  ?  or  what 
Could  she  reply? 

J.  You  ask  not  as  men  ask 

Who  care  for  an  opinion,  else,  perhaps, 
Although  I  am  not  sure — although,  perhaps, 
1  have  no  right  to  give  one — I  should  say 
She  would  reply,  "  I  will !  " 


Afterthought. 

Man  dwells  apart,  though  not  alone, 
lie  walks  among  his  peers  unread  ; 

The  best  of  thoughts  which  he  hath  known 
For  lack  of  listeners  are  not  said. 

Yet  dreaming  on  earth's  clustered  isles, 
lie  saith,  "  They  dwell  not  lone  like  men." 

Forgetful  that  their  sunflecked  smiles 
Flash  far  beyond  each  other's  ken. 

He  looks  on  God's  eternal  suns 

That  sprinkle  the  celestial  blue, 
And  saith,  "  Ah  !  happy  shining  ones, 

I  would  that  men  were  grouped  like  you  !  " 

Yet  this  is  sure  :  the  loveliest  star 
That  clustered  with  its  peers  we  see, 

Only  because  from  us  so  far 
JDoth  near  its  fellows  seem  to  be. 


SONGS  OF  SEVEN. 

SEVEN  TIMES  ONE.      EXULTATION. 

There's  no  dew  left  on  the  daisies  and  clover. 

There's  no  rain  left  in  heaven  : 
I've  said  my  "seven  times"  over  and  over, 

Seven  times  one  are  seven. 

1  am  old,  so  old,  I  can  write  a  letter ; 

My  birthday  lessons  are  done  ; 
The  lambs  play  always,  they  know  no  better  ; 

They  are  only  one  times  one. 

0  moon  !  in  the  night  I  have  seen  you  sailing 
And  shining  so  round  and  low  ; 

You  were  bright !  ah,  bright  I  but  your  light  is  fail- 
ing.— 
You  are  nothing  now  but  a  bow. 

You  moon,  have  you  done  something  wrong  in  heaven 
That  Grod  has  hidden  your  face  ? 

1  hope  if  you  have  you  will  soon  be  forgiven. 

And  shine  again  in  your  i)lace. 

O  velvet  bee,  you're  a  dusty  fellow, 
You've  powdered  your  legs  with  gold  I 

O  brave  marsh  marybuds,  rich  and  yellow, 
Give  me  your  money  to  hold  ! 

O  columbine,  open  your  folded  wrapper, 
Where  two  twin  turtle-doves  dwell  I 

0  cuckoopint,  toll  me  the  i)urple  clapper 
That  hangs  in  your  clear  green  bell  1 

And  show  me  your  nest  with  the  young  ones  in  it ; 
I  will  not  steal  them  away  ; 

1  am  old  !  you  may  trust  me,  linnet,  linnet — 

1  aiu  seven  times  one  to-day. 


-  >i- 

p 
o 

D 
O 
C 


SOA^CS  O  F  .^F  rF  ,V.  127 


SKVKN   TIMES    TWO.      ROMANCE. 

You  bells  in  the  steeple,  ring,  ring  out  your  changes, 

How  many  soever  they  be, 
And  let  the  brown  meadow-lark's  note  as  he  ranges 

Come  over,  come  over  to  me. 

Yet  birds'  clearest  carol  by  fall  or  by  swelling 

No  magical  sense  conveys. 
And  bells  have  forgotten  their  old  art  of  telling 

The  fortune  of  future  days. 

"  Turn  again,  turn  again,"  once  they  rang  cheerily,' 

While  a  boy  listened  alone  ; 
Made  his  heart  yearn  again,  musing  so  wearily 

All  by  himself  on  a  stone. 

Poor  bells !  I  forgive  you  ;  your  good  days  are  over, 

And  mine,  they  are  yet  to  be  ; 
No  listening,  no  longing  shall  aught,  aught  discover 

You  leave  the  story  to  me. 

The  foxglove  shoots  out  of  the  green  matted  heatiier- 

Preparing  her  hoods  of  snow  ; 
She  was  idle,  and  slept  till  the  sunshiny  weather  : 

O,  children  take  long  to  grow. 

I  wish  and  I  wish  that  the  spring  would  go  faster, 

Nor  long  suniiiier  bide  so  late  ; 
And  I  could  grow  on  like  the  foxglove  and  ai=ter. 

For  some  things  are  ill  to  wait. 

I  wait  for  the  day  when  dear  hearts  shall  discover, 
While  dear  hands  are  laid  on  my  head  ; 

*'  The  cliild  is  a  woman,  the  l)ook  may  close  over. 
For  i)A\  the  losHf)ns  are  said." 


128  SOJVGS  OF  SE  VEN: 

I  wa  t  for  my  story — the  birds  cannot  sine:  it, 

Not  one,  as  he  sits  on  the  tree  ; 
Tlie  bells  cannot  ring  it,  but  long  years,  O  bring  it  I 

Such  as  I  wish  it  to  be. 


SEVEN   TIMES   THREE.      LOVE. 

I  leaned  out  of  window,  I  smelt  the  white  clover, 

Dark,  dark  was  the  garden,  I  saw  not  the  gate ; 
"  Now,    if    there    be    footstofjs,   he   comes,  my   one 
lover — 
Hush,   nightingale,   hush  I    O,   sweet  nightingale, 
wait 
Till  1  listen  and  hear 
If  a  step  draweth  near. 
For  my  love  he  is  late ! 

"  The  skies  in  the  darkness  stoop  nearer  and  nearer, 

A  cluster  of  stars  hangs  like  fruit  in  the  tree, 
The  fall  of  the  water  comes  sweeter,  comes  clearer  : 
To  what  art  thou  listening,  and  what  dost  thou  see  ? 
Let  the  star-clusters  grow, 
Let  the  sweet  waters  flow. 
And  cross  quickly  to  me. 

"  You  night  moths  that  hover  where  honey  brinis 
over 
Prom  sycamore  blossoms,  or  settle  or  sleep  ; 
You  glowworms,  shine  out,  and  the  pathway  discover 
To  him  that  comes  darkling  along  the  rough  steep. 
Ah,  my  sailor,  make  haste, 
For  the  time  runs  to  waste, 
And  my  love  lieth  deep — 

"  Too  deep  for  swift  telling  ;  and  yet,  my  one  lover, 

I've  conned  thee  an  answer,  it  waits  thee  to  night." 
Ly  the  sycamore  passed  he,  and  through  tne  white 
clover, 


SONGS  OF  SE  VEN.  T  ?9 


Then  all  the  sweet  speech  1  had  fashioned  tools 
flight; 
But  I'll  love  him  more,  more 
Than  e'er  wife  loved  before, 
Be  the  days  dark  or  bright. 


SEVEN   TIMES   FOUR.      MATERNITY. 

Heigh  ho  I  daisies  and  buttercups, 
Fair  yellow  dalTodils,  stately-  and  tall  I 

When  the  wind  wakes  how  they  rock  in  the   grasses, 
And  dance  with  the  cuckoo-buds  slender  and  sinall  1 

Here's  two  bonny  boys,  and  here's  mother's  own  lassea 
Eager  to  gather  them  all. 

Heigh  ho  !  daisies  and  buttercups ! 

Mother  shall  thread  them  a  daisy  chain  ; 
Bing  them  a  song  of  the  pretty  hedge  sparrow, 

That  loved  her  bz'own  little  ones,  loved  them  full 
fain : 
Sing,  "  Heart,  thou  art  wide  though  the  house  be  but 
narrow" — 
Sing  once,  and  sing  it  again. 

Heigh  ho  !  daisies  and  buttercups. 

Sweet  wagging  cowslips,  they  bend  and  they  bow  ; 
A  ship  sails  afar  over  warm  ocean  waters. 

And  haply  one  musing  doth  stand  at  her  prow. 
O  bonny  brown  sons,  and  O  sweet  little  daughters, 

Maybe  he  thinks  on  you  now  I 

Heigh  ho!  daisies  and  buttercnifjs, 

Fair  yellow  dalTodils,  stately  and  tall  ! 
A  sunshiny  world  full  of  laughter  and  leisure, 

And  fresh  hearts  unconscious  of  sorrow  and  thrall ! 
Send  down  on  their  pleasure  smiles  i)assing  its  moas- 
ure, 
God  that  is  ov«;r  us  all  ! 

9 


SEVEN   TIMES   FIVE. 

I  sleep  and  rest,  my  heart  makes  moan 

Before  I  am  well  awake  , 
"  Let  me  bleed  !     O  let  me  alone, 

Since  I  must  not  break  !  " 

For  children  wake,  though  fathers  sleep 
With  a  stone  at  foot  and  at  head  : 

0  sleepless  God,  forever  keep, 
Keep  both  living  and  dead  ! 

1  lift  mine  eyes,  and  what  to  see 
And  a  world  happy  and  fair  ! 

I  have  not  wished  it  to  mourn  Avith  ino — 
Comfort  is  not  there. 

O  what  anear  but  golden  brooms, 
But  a  waste  of  reedy  rills  I 

0  what  afar  but  the  fine  glooms 
On  the  rai-e  blue  hills  ! 

1  shall  not  die,  but  live  forlore — 
How  bitter  it  is  to  part ! 

O  to  meet  thee,  my  love,  once  more  S 
O  my  heart,  my  heart ! 

No  more  to  hear,  no  more  to  see  ! 

0  that  an  echo  might  wake 

And  waft  one  note  of  thy  psalm  to  me 
Ere  my  heart-strings  break  ! 

should  know  it  how  faint  soe'er. 
And  with  angel  voices  blent ; 
O  oncp  to  feel  thy  spirit  unear  ; 

1  could  be  content  1 


SOATGS  OF  SE  VEN.  1 3 1 

Or  once  between  the  gates  of  gold, 

While  an  entering  angel  trod, 
But  once — thee  sitting  to  behold 

On  the  hills  of  God  ! 


SEVEN  TIMES   SIX.      GIVING  IN   MARRIAGK. 

To  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear. 

To  watch,  and  then  to  lose: 
To  see  my  bright  ones  disappear, 

Drawn  up  like  morning  dews — 
To  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear, 

To  watch,  and  then  to  lose : 
This  have  I  done  when  God  drew  near 

Among  his  own  to  choose. 

To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed, 

And  with  thy  lord  depart 
In  tears  that  he,  as  soon  as  shed. 

Will  let  no  longer  smart. — 
To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed. 

This  while  thou  didst  I  smiled. 
For  now  it  was  not  God  who  said, 

"  Mother,  give  me  thy  child." 

O  fond,  O  fool,  and  blind  I 

To  God  I  gave  with  tears ; 
But  when  a  man  like  grace  would  find, 

My  soul  put  by  her  fears — 
O  fond,  O  fool,  and  blind  1 

God  guards  in  happier  spheres  ; 
That  man  will  guard  where  he  did  bind 

Is  hope  for  unknown  years. 

To  hear,  to  heed,  to  wed. 

Fair  lot  that  maidens  choose, 

Thy  mother's  tenderest  words  are  said. 
Thy  face  no  more  she  views  ; 


»32  SOA'CS  OF  SEVEN. 


Thy  mother's  lot,  my  dear, 

She  doth  in  nought  accuse  ; 
Her  lot  to  bear,  to  nurse,  to  rear, 
V  xo  love — and  then  to  lose. 


SE\TIN  TIMES  SEVEN.     LONGING  FOR  HOME. 

I. 

A  song  of  a  boat : — 
There  was  once  a  boat  on  a  billow: 
Lightly  she  rocked  to  her  port  remote. 
And  the  foam  was  white  in  her  wake  hke  snow. 
And  her  frail  mast  bowed  when  the  breeze  would  blow. 
And  bent  like  a  wand  of  willow. 

II. 

I  shaded  mine  eyes  one  day  when  a  boat 

Went  curtseying  over  the  billow, 
I  marked  her  course  till  a  dancing  mote 
She  faded  out  on  the  moonlit  foam, 
And  1  stayed  behind  in  the  dear  loved  home  ; 
And  my  tlioughts  all  day  were  about  the  boat 
And  my  dreams  upon  the  pillow. 

III. 
I  pray  you  hear  my  song  of  a  boat, 

For  it  is  but  short : — 
My  boat,  you  shall  find  none  fairer  afloat, 

In  river  or  port. 
Long  1  looked  out  for  the  lad  she  bore, 

On  the  open  desolate  sea, 
And  1  think  he  sailed  to  the  heavenly  shore, 

i)'or  he  came  not  back  to  mo — 

Ah  iuti  I 


SCNGS  OF  SF.VEJV.  133 


IV. 

A  song  of  a  nest : — 
There  was  once  a  nest  in  a  hollow  : 
Down  in  the  mosses  and  knot-grass  prossedf 
Soft  and  warm,  and  full  to  the  brim — 
Vetches  leaned  over  it  purple  and  dim, 
With  buttercup  buds  to  follow. 

V. 

I  pray  you  hear  my  song  of  a  nest, 

For  it  is  not  long  : — 
You  shall  never  light,  in  a  summer  quest 

The  bushes  among — 
Shall  never  light  on  a  prouder  sitter, 

A  fairer  nestful,  nor  ever  know 
A  softer  sound  than  their  tender  twitter. 

That  wind-like  did  come  and  go. 

VI. 

I  had  a  nestful  once  of  my  own, 

Ah,  happy,  happy  I  ! 
Right  dearly  I  loved  them  :  but  when  they  were 
grown 

They  spread  out  their  wings  to  fly — 
O,  one  after  one  they  flew  away 

Far  up  to  the  heavenly  blue. 
To  the  better  country,  the  upper  day, 

And — I  wish  1  was  going  too. 

VII. 

3  pray  you,  what  is  the  nest  to  me, 

My  empty  nest? 
And  what  is  the  shore  where  I  stood  to  ?ec 

My  boat  sail  down  to  the  west  ? 
Can  1  call  that  home  where  I  anchor  yet, 

Though  my  good  man  has  sailed  ? 
Can  I  call  that  home  where  my  nest  was  sot, 

Now  all  its  hope  hath  failed  ? 


:i34  A  COTTAGE  IN  A  CHINE. 

Nay,  but  the  port  where  my  sailor  went, 
And  the  land  where  my  nestlings  be  : 

There  is  the  home  where  my  thoughts  are  sent, 
The  only  home  for  me — 

Ah  me  I 


A  COTTAGE  IN  A  CHINE. 

We  reached  the  place  by  night. 

And  heard  the  waves  breaking : 
They  came  to  meet  us  with  ca.ndles  alight 

To  show  the  path  we  were  taking. 
A  myrtle,  trained  on  the  gate,  was  white 

With  tufted  flowers  down  shaking. 

With  head  beneath  her  wing. 

A  little  wren  was  sleei:)ing — 
So  near,  I  had  found  it  an  easy  thing 

To  steal  her  for  my  keeping 
From  the  myrtle  bough  that  with  easy  swing 

Across  the  path  was  sweeping. 

Down  rocky  steps  rough-hewed, 

Where  cup-mosses  flowered, 
And  under  the  trees,  all  twisted  and  rude, 

Wlierevvith  the  dell  was  dowered. 
They  led  us,  where  deep  in  its  solitude 

Lay  the  cottage,  leaf-embowered. 

The  thatch  was  all  bespread 

With  climbing  passion  flowers  ; 
They  were  wet,  and  glistened  with  rain-drops,  shed 

That  day  in  genial  showers. 
"  Was  never  a  sweeter  nest,"  we  said, 

"  Than  this  httle  nest  of  ours." 


A  COTTAGE  hV  A  CHINE.  135 


We  laid  us  down  to  sleep  : 

But  as  for  me — waking, 
I  marked  the  plunge  of  the  mufiSed  deep 

On  its  sandy  reaches  breaking  ; 
For  heart-joyance  doth  sometimes  keep 

Prom  slumber,  like  heart-aching. 

And  I  was  glad  that  night, 

With  no  reason  ready, 
To  give  my  own  heart  for  its  deep  delight, 

That  flowed  like  some  tidal  eddy, 
Or  shone  like  a  star  that  was  rising  bright 

With  comforting  radiance  steady. 

But  on  a  sudden — ha^rk  ! 

Music  struck  asunder 
Those  meshes  of  bliss,  and  I  wept  in  the  dork. 

So  sweet  was  the  unseen  Avonder  ; 
So  swiftly  ii  touched-  as  if  struck  at  a  mark. 

The  trouble  that  joy  kept  under. 

I  rose — the  moon  outshone  : 

I  saw  the  sea  heaving, 
And  a  little  vessel  sailing  alone, 

The  small  crisp  wavelet  cleaving  ; 
'Twas  she  as  she  sailed  to  her  port  unknown — 

Was  tliat  track  of  sweetness  leaving. 

We  know  they  music  made 

In  heaven,  ere  man's  creation  ; 
But  when  God  threw  it  down  to  us  that  strayed, 

It  dropt  with  lamentation, 
And  ever  since  doth  its  sweetness  shade 

With  sighs  for  its  first  station. 

Its  joy  suggests  regret — 

Its  most  for  more  is  yearning  ; 
And  it  brings  to  the  soul  that  its  voice  hath  met 


1.^6  A  COTTAGE  IN  A  CHINE. 

No  rest  that  cadence  learning:, 
Bnt  a  conscious  part  in  lae  sighs  that  frtc 
Its  nature  for  returning. 

0  Eve,  sweet  Eve !  methought 
When  sometimes  comfort  winning, 

As  she  watched  the  first  children's  tender  fiporti 

Sole  joy  born  since  her  sinning, 
If  a  bird  anear  them  sang,  it  brought 

The  pang  as  at  beginning. 

While  swam  the  unshed  tear, 

Her  prattlers,  little  heeding, 
AVould  murmur,  "This  bird,  with  its  carof  clear,: 

When  the  red  clay  was  kneaden. 
And  God  made  Adam  our  father  dear. 

Sang  to  him  thus  in  Eden." 

The  moon  went  in — the  sky 
And  earth  and  sea  hiding  ; 

1  laid  me  down,  with  the  yearning  sigh 
Of  that  strain  in  my  heart  abiding  ; 

T  slept,  and  the  bark  that  had  sailed  so  nJgh 
±a  my  dream  was  ever  gliding. 

J  slept,  but  waked  amazed, 

With  sudden  noise  frighted, 
And  voices  without,  and  a  flash  that  dazed 

My  eyes  from  candles  lighted. 
*'  Ah  I  surely,"  methought,  "  by  these  shouts  upriiiscd, 

Some  travellers  are  benighted." 


'o' 


A  voice  was  at  my  side — 

"  Waken,  madam,  waken! 
The  long  prayed-for  ship  at  her  anchor  doth  ride. 

Let  the  child  from  its  rest  be  taken, 
For  the  cai)tain  doth  weary  for  babe  and  for  bride — 

Waken,  madam,  waken  I 


A  COTTAGE  IN  A  CHTNE. 


^o/ 


•'  The  home  you  left  but  late, 

He  speeds  to  it  light-hearted  ; 
By  the  wires  he  sent  this  news,  and  straight 

To  you  with  it  they  started." 
O  joy  for  a  yearning  heart  too  great, 

O  union  for  the  parted  1 

We  rose  up  in  the  night, 

The  morning  star  was  shining  ; 
We  carried  the  child  in  its  slumber  light 

Out  by  the  myrtles  twining  : 
Orion  over  the  sea  hung  bright. 

And  glorious  in  declining. 

Mother,  to  meet  her  son, 

Smiled  first,  then  wept  the  rather  ; 
And  wife,  to  bind  tip  those  links  undone, 

And  cherished  words  to  gather. 
And  to  show  the  face  of  her  little  one, 

That  had  never  seen  its  father. 

That  cottage  in  a  chine, 

We  were  not  to  behold  it ; 
But  there  may   the  purest  of  sunbeams  shine. 

May  freshest  flowers  enfold  it. 
For  sake  of  the  news  whicli  our  hearts  must  twine 

With  the  bower  where  we  were  told  it  I 

Now  oft,  left  alone  again. 

Sit  mother  and  sit  daughter. 
And  bless  the  good  ship  that  sailed  over  the  mam, 

And  the  favoring  winds  that  ])rought  her  ; 
While  still  some  new  beauty  they  labia  and  feign 
For  the  cottage  by  the  water. 


13S  PERSEPHONE. 


PERSEPHONE. 

Written  for  The  Portfolio  Society,  January,  1863. 
Subject  given — "  Light  and  Shade.'" 

She  stepped  upon  Sicilian  grass, 
Demeter's  daughter  fresh  and  fair, 

A  child  of  light,  a  radiant  lass, 

And  gamesome  as  the  morning  air, 

Tlie  daffodils  were  fair  to  see, 

They  nodded  lightly  on  the  lea, 

Persephone — Persephone  ! 

Lo  !  one  she  marked  of  rarer  growth 

Than  orchis  or  anemone  ; 
For  it  the  maiden  left  them  both, 

And  parted  from  her  company. 
Drawn  nigh  she  deemed  it  fairer  still. 
And  stooped  to  gather  by  the  rill 
The  daffodil,  the  daffodil. 

What  ailed  the  meadow  that  it  shook  ? 

What  ailed  the  air  of  Sicily  ? 
Shfi  wondered  by  the  brattling  brooks 

And  trembled  with  the  trembling  lea. 
"  The  coal-black  horses  rise — they  rise  : 
O  mother,  mother !  "  low  she  cries — 
Persephone — Persephone  1 

"  O  hght,  light,  light  I  "  she  cries,  "  farewell ; 

The  coal-black  horses  wait  for  me. 
O  shade  of  shades,  where  I  must  dwell, 

Demeter,  mother,  far  from  thee  1 
Ah,  fated  doom  that  I  fulfil  I 
Ah,  fateful  ttower  beside  the  rill  I 
The  dallodil,  the  daffodil  1  " 


PERSEPHONE.  139 


What  ails  her  that  she  comes  not  home  ? 

Demeter  seeks  her  far  and  wide, 
And  gloomj'-browed  doth  ceaseless  roam 

From  many  a  morn  till  eventide. 
"  My  life,  immortal  though  it  be. 
Is  nought,"  she  cries,  "  for  want  of  thee, 
Persephone — Persephone  1 

"  Meadows  of  Enna,  let  the  rain 
No  longer  drop  to  feed  your  rills, 

Nor  dew  refresh  the  fields  again, 
With  all  their  nodding  daffodils  ! 

Fade,  fade  and  droop,  O  lilied  lea. 

Where  thou,  dear  heart,  wert  reft  from  me — 

Persephone — Persephone  !  " 


She  reigns  upon  her  duskj^  throne, 
'  Mid  shades  of  heroes  dread  to  see  ; 

Among  the  dead  she  breathes  alone, 
Persephone — Persephone  ! 

Or  seated  on  the  Elysian  hill 

She  dreams  of  earthly  daylight  still, 

And  murmurs  of  the  dailodil. 

A  voice  in  Hades  soundeth  clear, 
The  shadows  mourn  and  flit  below  ; 

It  cries — "  Thou  Lord  of  Hades,  hear, 
And  let  Demeter's  daughter  go. 

The  tender  corn  upon  the  lea 

Droops  in  her  goddess  gloom  when  she 

Cries  for  her  lost  Persephone. 

"  From  land  to  land  she  raging  flies, 
The  green  fruit  falleth  in  her  wake. 

And  harvest  fields  beneath  hor  eyes 
To  earth  the  grain  unripened  shake. 

Arise,  and  set  the  maiden  free  ; 

Why  should  the  world  such  soxtow  dree 

By  reason  of  Persephone  ?  " 


140  PERSEPHONE. 


He  takes  the  cleft  pomegranate  seeds  : 
"  Love,  eat  with  me  this  parting  day  ;  " 

Then  bids  them  fetch  the  coal-black  steeds — 
"  Demeter's  daughter,  wouldst  away  ?  " 

The  gates  of  Hades  set  her  free  ; 

"  She  will  return  full  soon,"  said  he  — 

"  My  wife,  my  wife  Persephone." 

Low  laughs  the  dark  king  on  his  throne — 
"  I  gave  her  of  pomegranate  seeds." 

Demeter's  daughter  stands  alone 
Upon  the  fair  Eleusian  meads. 

Her  mother  meets  her.     "  Hail,"  saith  she  ; 

"  And  doth  our  daylight  dazzle  thee, 

My  love,  my  child  Persephone  ? 

"  What  moved  thee,  daughter,  to  forsake 
Thy  fellow-maids  that  fatal  morn, 

And  give  thy  dark  lord  the  power  to  take 
Thee  living  to  his  realm  forlorn  ?  " 

Her  lips  reply  without  her  will. 

As  one  addressed  who  slumbereth  still — 

"  The  daffodil,  the  daffodil !  " 

Her  eyelids  droop  with  light  oppressed, 
And  sunny  Avafts  that  round  her  stir, 

Her  cheek  upon  her  mother's  breast — 
Demeter's  kisses  comfort  her. 

Calm  Queen  of  Hades,  art  thou  she 

Who  stepped  so  lightly  on  the  lea — 

Persephone,  Persephone  ? 

When,  in  her  destined  course,  the  moon 
Meets  the  deep  shadow  of  this  world. 

And  laboring  on  doth  seem  to  SAvoon 

Through  awful  wastes  of  dimness  whirled  — 

Emerged  at  length,  no  trace  hath  she 

Of  that  dark  hour  of  destiny, 

Still  silvery  sweet — Persephone. 


A  SEA  SONG.  14^ 


The  greater  world  may  near  the  less, 

And  draw  it  through  her  weltering  shade. 

But  not  one  biding  trace  impress 
Of  all  the  darkness  that  she  made  ; 

The  greater  soul  that  draweth  thee 

Hath  left  his  shadow  plain  to  see 

On  thy  dear  face,  Persephone  ! 

Demeter  sighs,  but  sure  'tis  well 
The  wife  should  love  her  destiny : 

They  part,  and  yet,  as  legends  tell, 
(She  mourns  her  lost  Persephone ; 

iVhile  chant  the  maids  of  Enna  still  ^ 

"O  fateful  flower  beside  the  rill — 

The  dalfodil,  the  daffodil  I  " 


A  SEA  SONG. 

Old  a  lbioN  sat  on  a  crag  of  late, 
And  sung  out — "  Ahoy  !  ahoy  ! 
Long  life  to  the  captain,  good  luck  to  the  mate, 
And  this  to  my  sailor  boy  I 
Come  over,  come  home, 
Through  the  salt  foam, 
My  sailor,  my  sailor  boy  ! 

"  Here's  a  crown  to  be  given  away,  I  ween, 

A  crown  for  my  sailor's  head, 
And  all  for  the  worth  of  a  widowed  queen, 
And  the  love  of  the  noble  dead. 
And  the  fear  and  fame 
Of  the  island's  name 
Where  my  boy  was  born  and  bred. 

"  Content  thee,  content  thee,  let  it  alouo. 
Thou  marked  for  a  choice  so  rare  ; 


Though  treaties  be  treaties,  never  a  throne 
Was  proffered  for  cause  as  fair. 
Yet  come  to  nie  home, 
Through  the  salt  sea  foam, 
For  the  Greek  must  ask  elsewhere. 

'  'Tis  pity,  my  sailor,  but  who  can  tell  ? 

Many  lands  they  look  to  me  ; 
One  of  these  might  be  wanting  a  Prince  as  well. 
But  that's  as  hereafter  may  be." 
She  raised  her  white  head 
And  laughed  ;  and  she  said, 
"  That's  as  hereafter  may  be." 


BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON. 

It  was  a  village  built  in  a  green  rent. 

Between  two  cliffs  that  skirt  the  dangerous  bay. 

A  reef  of  level  rock  runs  out  to  sea. 
And  you  may  lie  on  it  and  look  sheer  down, 
Just  where  tiie  "  Grace  of  Sunderland  "  was  lost, 
And  see  the  elastic  banners  of  the  dulse 
Rock  softly,  and  the  orange  star-fish  creep 
Across  the  laver,  and  the  mackerel  shoot 
Over  and  under  it,  like  silver  boats 
Turning  at  will  and  plying  under  water. 

There  on  that  reef  we  lay  upon  our  breasts, 
My  brother  and  I,  and  half  the  village  lads, 
For  an  old  fisherman  had  called  to  us 
With  "  Sirs,  the  syle  be  come.""A  nd  what  are  they  ?  " 
My  brother  said.     "  Good  lack  1  "  the  old  man  cried, 
And  shook  his  head  ;  "  to  tliink  you  gentlefolk 
Should  ask  what  syle  be  !     Look  you  ;  1  can't  say 
What  syle  be  called  in  your  tine  dictionaries, 


BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON.  I43 


Nor  what  name  God  Almighty  calls  them  by 
When  their  food's  ready  and  He  sends  them  south  ; 
But  our  folk  call  them  syle,  and  nought  but  syle, 
And   when   they're   grown,  why   then  we  call  thein 

herring. 
I  tell  you,  Sir,  the  water  is  as  full 
Of  them  as  pastures  be  of  blades  of  grass  ; 
You'll  draw  a  score  out  in  a  landing  net, 
And  none  of  them  be  longer  than  a  pin. 

•'  Syle  1  ay,  indeed,  we  should  be  badly  off, 

I  reckon,  and  so  would  God  Almighty's  gulls," 

He  grumbled  on  in  his  quaint  piety, 

"  And  all  his  other  birds,  if  He  should  say 

I  will  not  drive  my  syle  into  the  south  ; 

The  fisher  folk  may  do  without  my  syle, 

And  do  without  the  shoals  of  fish  it  draws 

To  follow  and  feed  on  it." 

This  said,  we  mado 
Our  peace  with  him  by  means  of  two  small  coins^ 
And  down  we  ran  and  lay  upon  the  reef, 
And  saw  the  swimming  infants,  emerald  green, 
In  separate  shoals,  the  scarcely  turning  ebb 
Bringing  them  in  ;  while  sleek,  and  not  intent 
On  chase,  but  taking  that  which  came  to  hand. 
The  full-fed  mackerel  and  the  gurnet  swam 
Between  ;  and  settling  on  the  polished  sea, 
A  thousand  snow-white  gulls  sat  lovingly 
In  social  rings,  and  twittered  while  they  fed. 
The  village  dogs  and  ours,  elate  and  brave. 
Lay  looldng  over,  barking  at  the  fish  ; 
Fast,  fast  the  silver  creatures  took  the  bait. 
.  And  when  they  heaved  and  lloundered  on  the  rock, 
In  beauteous  misery,  a  sudden  pat 
Some  shaggy  i)up  would  deal,  then  back  away, 
At  distance  eye  them  with  sagacious  doubt, 
And  shrink  half  frightened  from  the  slippery  thiuca. 


144  BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON. 


And  so  we  lay  from  ebb-tide,  till  the  flow 
Rose  high  enough  to  drive  us  from  the  reef  ; 
The  fisher  lads  Avent  home  across  the  sand ; 
We  climbed  the  clitf,  and  sat  an  hour  or  more, 
Talking  and  looking  down.     It  was  not  talk 
Of  much  significance,  except  for  this — 
That  we  had  more  in  common  than  of  old. 
For  both  were  tired,  I  with  overwork. 
He  with  inaction  ;  I  was  glad  at  heart 
To  rest,  and  he  was  glad  to  have  an  ear 
That  he  could  grumble  to,  and  half  in  jest 
Rail  at  entails,  deplore  the  fate  of  heirs, 
And  the  misfortune  of  a  good  estate — 
Misfortune  that  was  sure  to  pull  him  down, 
Make  him  a  dreamy,  selfish,  useless  man  : 
Indeed  he  felt  himself  deteriorate 
Ali'eady.     Thereupon  he  sent  down  showers 
Of  clattering  stones,  to  emphasize  his  words, 
And  leap  the  cliffs  and  tumble  noisily 
Into  the  seething  wave.     And  as  for  me, 
1  railed  at  him  and  at  ingratitude, 
While  rifling  of  the  basket  he  had  slung 
Across  his  shoulders  ;  then  with  right  good  will 
We  fell  to  work,  and  feasted  like  the  gods. 
Like  laborers,  or  like  eager  workhouse  folk 
At  Yuletide  dinner  ;  or,  to  say  the  whole 
At  once,  like  tired,  hungry,  healthy  youth. 
Until  the  meal  being  o'er,  the  tilted  flask 
Drained  of  its  latest  drop,  the  meat  and  bread 
Ami  ruddy  cherries  eaten,  anvl  the  dogs 
Mumbling  the  bones,  this  ekler  brother  of  mine- 
This  man  that  never  felt  an  ache  or  pain 
In  his  broad,  well-knit  frame,  and  never  knew 
The  trouble  of  an  unforgiven  grudge. 
The  sting  of  a  regretted  meanness,  nor 
The  desperate  struggle  of  the  unendowed 
For  place  and  for  possession — he  begati 


To  sing  a  rhyme  that  he  himself  had  wrought ; 

Sending  it  out  with  cogitative  i)ause, 

As  if  the  scene  where  he  had  shaped  it  first 

Had  rolled  it  back  on  him,  and  meeting  it 

Thus  unaware,  he  was  of  doubtful  mind    / 

Whether  his  dignity  it  well  beseemed 

To  sing  of  pretty  maiden  : 

Goldilocks  sat  on  the  grass, 

Tying  up  of  posies  rare  ; 
Hardly  could  a  sunbeam  pass 

Through  the  cloud  that  was  her  hair. 
Purple  orcliis  lasteth  long, 

Primrose  flowers  are  pale  and  clear ; 
O  the  maiden  sang  a  song 

It  would  do  you  good  to  hear  I 

Bad  before  her  leaned  the  boy, 

"  Goldilocks  that  I  love  well, 
Happy  creature  fair  and  coy, 

Tliiiik  o'  me.  Sweet  Amabel," 
Goldilocks  she  shook  apart, 

Looked  with  doubtful,  doubtful  eyes; 
Like  a  blossom  on  her  heart 

Opened  out  her  first  suri)rise. 

As  a  gloriole  sign  o'  grace, 

Goldilocks,  ah,  fall  and  flow 
On  the  blooming  childlike  face, 

Dhnple,  dimple,  come  and  go. 
Give  her  time ;  on  grass  and  sky 

Let  her  gaze  if  she  be  fain  : 
As  they  looked  ere  he  drew  nigh, 

They  will  never  look  again. 

Ah  1  the  playtime  she  has  known. 
While  her  goldilocks  grew  lung, 
la  it  like  a  nestling  llowu, 
10 


Childhood  over  like  a  song  ? 
Yes,  the  boy  may  clear  his  brow, 

Though  she  thinks  to  say  him  nay 
Wlien  she  sighs,  "  I  cannot  now — 

Come  again  some  other  day." 

"  Hold  there  !  "  he  cried,  half  angry  Tvith  himself  ; 

"  That  ending  goes  amiss  :  "  then  turned  again 

To  the  old  argument  that  we  had  held — 

"  Now  look  you  !  "  said  my  brother,  "  you  may  talk 

Till,  weary  of  the  talk,  I  answer  '  Ay, 

There's  reason  in  your  words  ; '  and  you  may  talk 

Till  I  go  on  to  say,  '  This  should  be  so  ; ' 

And  you  may  talk  till  I  shall  further  own 

'  It  is  so  ;  yes  I  am  a  lucky  dog  1 ' 

Yet  not  the  less  shall  I  next  morning  wake, 

And  with  a  natural  and  fervent  sigh. 

Such  as  you  never  heaved,  I  shall  exclaim 

'  What  an  unlucky  dog  I  am  ! '  "     And  hero 

He  broke  into  a  laugh.     "But  as  for  you — 

You  1  on  all  hands  you  have  the  best  of  me  ; 

Men  nave  not  robbed  you  of  your  birthright — work, 

Nor  ravaged  in  old  days  a  peaceful  field. 

Nor  wedded  heiresses  against  their  will, 

Nor  sinned,  nor  slaved,  nor  stooped,  nor  overreached 

That  you  might  drone  a  useless  life  away 

'Mid  half  a  score  of  bleak  and  barren  farms 

And  half  a  dozen  bogs." 

"  O  rare  I  "  I  cried  ; 
•'  His  wrongs  go  nigh  to  make  him  eloquent : 
Now  we  behold  how  far  bad  actions  reach  t 
Because  five  hundred  years  ago  a  Knight 
Drove  geese  and  beeves  out  from  a  franklin's  yard  :, 
Because  three  hundred  years  ago  a  squire — 
Against  her  will,  and  for  her  fair  estate — 
Married  a  very  ugly,  red-haired  maid, 
The  Lilest  inheritor  of  all  their  pelf, 


BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMOM.  147 

While  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  the  same, 

Signs  on  his  own  confession  every  day. 

He  cracks  no  egg  without  a  moral  sigh, 

Nor  eats  of  beef  but  thinking  on  that  wrong  ; 

Then,  yet  the  more  to  be  revenged  on  them, 

And  shame  their  ancient  pride,  if  they  should  know, 

Works  hard  as  any  horse  for  his  degree, 

And  takes  to  writing  verses." 

"Ay,"  he  said. 
Half  laughing  at  himself.     "  Yet  you  and  I, 
But  for  those  tresses  which  enrich  us  yet 
With  somewhat  of  the  hue  that  partial  fame 
Calls  auburn  when  it  shines  on  heads  of  heirs, 
But  when  it  flames  round  brows  of  younger  sons, 
Just  red — more  red  ;  why,  but  for  tliis,  I  say. 
And  but  for  selfish   getting  of  the  land, 
Aiid  beggarly  entailing  it,  we  two. 
To-day  well  fed,  well  grown,  well  dressed,  well  read,, 
We  might  have  been  two  horny-handed  boors — 
Lean,  clumsy,  ignorant,  and  ragged  boors — 
Planning  for  moonlight  nights  a  poaching  scheme, 
Or  soiling  our  dull  souls  and  consciences 
With  plans  for  pilfering  a  cottage  roost. 

"What  chorus!  are  you  dumb?   you  should  have 

cried, 
'  So  good  comes  out  of  evil  ;  '  "  and  with  that, 
As  if  all  pauses  it  was  natural 
To  seize  for  songs,  his  voice  broke  out  again  : 

Coo,  dove,  to  thy  unmarried  mate — 

She  has  two  warm  eggs  in  her  nest : 
Tell  her  the  hours  are  few  to  wait 

Ere  life  shall  dawn  on  their  rest ; 
And  thy  young  shall  peck  at  the  shells,  elate 

With  a  dream  of  her  brooding  breast. 


148  BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON. 

Coo,  dove,  for  she  counts  the  hours, 

Her  fair  wings  ache  for  flight : 
By  day  the  apple  has  grown  in  the  flowers, 

And  the  moon  has  grown  by  night, 
And  the  white  drift  settled  from  hawthorn  bowers. 

Yet  they  will  not  seek  the  light. 

Coo,  dove  ;  but  what  of  the  sky  ? 

And  what  if  the  storm-wind  swell. 
And  the  reeling  branch  come  down  from  on  high 

To  the  grass  where  daisies  dwell, 
And  the  brood  beloved  should  with  them  lie 

Or  ever  they  break  the  shell  ? 

Coo,  dove  ;  and  yet  black  clouds  lower, 

Like  fate,  on  the  far-off  sea  ; 
Thunder  and  wind  they  bear  to  thy  bower, 

As  on  wings  of  destiny. 
Ah,  what  if  they  break  in  an  evil  hour. 

As  they  broke  over  mine  and  ine  ? 

What  next  ? — we  started  like  to  girls,  for  lo  ! 
The  cro<Jdng  voice,  more  harsh  than  rusty  crane, 
Of  one  who  stooped  behind  us,  cried  aloud, 
"  Good  lack  I  how  sweet  the  gentleman  does  sing — 
So  loud  and  sweet,  'tis  like  to  split  his  throat. 
Why,  Mike's  a  child  to  him,  a  two-years  child — 
A  Chrisom  child." 

"  Who's  Mike  ?  "  niy  brother  growled 
A  little  roughly.     Quoth  the  flsherman — 
"  Mike,  Sir  ?  he's  just  a  fisher  lad,  no  more  ; 
But  he  can  sing  when  he  takes  on  to  sing, 
So  loud  there's  not  a  sparrow  in  the  spire 
But  needs  must  hear.     Sir,  if  I  might  make  bold, 
I'd  ask  what  song  that  was  you  sung.     My  mate, 
As  we  were  shoving  off  the  mackerel  boats, 
Said  he,  '  I'll  wager  that's  the  sort  o'  song 
They  kept  their  hearts  up  with  in  the  Crimea.'  " 


BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERATON.  149 

■"There,  fisherman,"  quoth  1,  "  he  showed  his  wit. 
Your  mate  ;  he  marked  the  sound  of  savage  war — 
Gunpowder,  groans,  hot-shot,  and  bursting  shells, 
And  *  murderous  messages,'  delivered  by 
Spent  balls  that  break  the  heads  of  dreaming  men." 

"  Ay,  ay,  Sir  1  "  quoth  the  fisherman,  '"  Have  done  I  " 
My  brother.     And  I — "  The  gift  belongs  to  few 
Of  sending  farther  than  the  words  can  reach 
Their  spirit  and  expression  ;  "  still  "  Have  done  I  " 
lie  cried  ;  and  then  "  I  rolled  the  rubbish  out 
More  loudly  than  the  meaning  warranted, 
To  air  my  lungs — I  thought  not  on  the  words." 

Then  said  the  fisherman,  who  missed  the  point, 

"  So  Mike  rolls  out  the  psalm  ;  you'll  hear  him.  Sir, 

Please  God  you  live  till  Sunday." 

*'  Even  so: 
And  you,  too,  fisherman  ;  for  here,  they  say. 
You  all  are  church-goers," 

*'  Surely,  Sir,"  quoth  bo. 
Took  off  his  hat,  and  stroked  his  old  white  head 
And  wrinkled  face  ;  then  sitting  by  us  said, 
As  one  that  utters  with  a  quiet  mind 
Unchallenged  truth — "  'Tis  lucky  for  the  boats," 

The  boats  !  'tis  lucky  for  the  boats  1     Our  eyes 
Were  drawn  to  him  a,s  either  fain  would  say, 
What  I  do  they  send  the  psalm  up  in  the  spire 
And  pray  because  'tis  lucky  for  the  boats  ? 
But  he,  the  brown  old  man,  the  wrinkled  man. 
That  all  his  life  had  been  a  church-goer, 
Familiar  with  celestial  cadences, 
It.fontH'd  of  all  he  could  receive,  and  sure 
Of  all  he  understood — he  sat  content, 
And  we  kept  silence.     In  his  reverend  facu 


ISO  BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON: 

There  was  a  sinipleness  we  could  not  sound  ; 
Much  truth  had  passed  him  overhead  ;  some  error 
He  had  trod  under  foot ;— God  comfort  him  ! 
lie  could  not  learn  of  us,  for  we  were  young 
And  he  was  old,  and  so  we  gave  it  up  ; 
And  the  sun  went  into  the  west,  and  down 
Upon  the  water  stooped  an  orange  cloud. 
And  the  pale  milky  reaches  flushed,  as  glad 
To  wear  its  colors  ]  and  the  sultry  air 
Went  out  to  sea,  and  puffed  the  sails  of  ships 
With  thyniy  wafts,  the  breath  of  trodden  grass: 
It  took  moreover  music,  for  across 
The  heather  belt  and  over  pasture  land 
Came  the  sweet  monotone  of  one  slow  belL 
And  parted  time  into  divisions  rare, 
Whereof  each  morsel  brought  its  own  delight. 

"They  ring  for  service,"  quoth  the  fisherman  ; 
"Our  parson  preaches  in  the  church  to-night." 

"  And  do  the  people  go  ?  "  my  brother  asked. 

"  Ay,  Sir  ;  thej'-  count  it  mean  to  stay  awciy, 
lie  takes  it  so  to  heart,     lie's  a  rare  man, 
IJur  parson  ;  half  a  head  above  us  all." 

"  That's  a  great  gift,  and  notable,"  said  T, 

•■  Ay,  Sir  ;  and  when  he  was  a  younger  man 

lie  went  out  in  the  life-boat  very  oft, 

IJi-fore  the  '  Grace  of  Sunderland  '  was  wrecked, 

lie's  never  been  his  own  man  since  that  hour  ; 

For  there  were  thirty  men  aboard  of  her, 

Auigh  as  close  as  you  are  now  to  me, 

And  ne'er  a  one  was  saved. 

They're  lying  now. 
With  two  small  children,  in  a  row  :  the  churrh 
Ami  yard  are  full  of  seamen's  graves,  and  few 
[lj.ve  auy  nauioa. 


BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON.  151 


She  bumped  upon  the  reef  ; 
Our  parson,  my  young  son,  and  several  more 
Were  lashed  together  with  a  two-inch  rope, 
And  crept  along  to  her  ;  their  mates  ashore 
Ready  to  haul  them  in.     The  gale  Avas  high, 
The  sea  was  all  a  boiling,  seething  froth, 
And  God  Almighty's  guns  were  going  off, 
And  the  land  trembled. 

"  When  she  took  the  ground, 
She  went  to  pieces  like  a  lock  of  hay 
Tossed  from  a  pitchfork.     Ere  it  came  to  that, 
The  captain  reeled  on  deck  with  two  small  things, 
One  in  each  arm — his  little  lad  and  lass. 
Their  hair  was  long,  and  blew  before  his  face, 
Or  else  we  thought  he  had  been  saved  ;  he  fell, 
But  held  them  fast.     The  crew,  poor  luckless  souls  1 
The  breakers  licked  them  off  ;  and  some  were  crushed, 
Some  swallowed  in  the  yeast,  some  flung  up  dead. 
The  dear  breath  beafen  out  of  them  :  not  one 
Jumped  from  the  wreck  upon  the  reef  to  catch 
The  hands  that  strained  to  reach,  but  tumbled  back 
With  eyes  wide  open.     But  the  captain  lay 
And  clung — the  only  n^an  alive.     They  prayed — 
'For  God's  sake,  captain,  throw  the  children  here!' 
'  Throw  them  I '  our  parson  cried;  and  then  she  struck: 
And  he  threw  one,  a  pretty  two-years  child ; 
But  the  gale  dashed  him  on  the  slippery  verge, 
Aud  down  he  went.     They  say  they  heard  hiui  cry. 

"  Then  he  rose  up  and  took  the  other  one. 

And  all  our  men  reached  out  their  hunuM-y  arms, 

And  cried  out,  '  Tlirow  her  I  '  and  he  ditl : 

lie  threw  tier  right  against  the  parson's  breast, 

And  all  at  once  the  sea  broke  over  them, 

And  they  that  saw  it  from  the  shore  have  said 

Is  struck  the  wreck,  and  piecemeal  scattered  it, 


IS 2  BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON. 

Just  as  a  woman  might  the  lump  of  salt 
That  'twixt  her  hands  into  the  kneading-pan 
She  breaks  and  crumbles  on  her  rising  bread. 

"  We  hauled  our  men  in  :  two  of  them  were  dead — 
The  sea  had  beaten  th  m,  their  heads  hung  down  ; 
Our  parson's  arms  were  .mpty,  for  the  wave 
flad  torn  away  the  pretty,  pretty  lamb  ; 
We  often  see  him  stand  beside  her  grave  : 
But  'twas  no  fault  of  his^  no  fault  of  his. 

• 
"I  ask  your  pardon,  Sirs  ;  I  prate  and  prate, 
And  never  have  I  said  what  brought  me  here. 
Sirs,  if  you  want  a  boat  to-morrow  morn, 
I'm  bold  to  say  there's  ne'er  a  boat  like  mine." 
"  Ay,  that  was  what  we  wanted,"  we  replied  ; 
"  A  boat,  his  boat ; "  and  off  he  went,  well  pleaaod. 

We,  too,  rose  up  (the  crimson  in  the  sky 
Flushing  our  faces),,  and  went  sauntering  on, 
And  thought  to  reach  our  lodging,  by  the  cliff. 
And  up  and  down  among  the  heather  beds, 
And  up  and  down  between  the  sheaves,  we  sped. 
Doubling  and  winding  ;  for  a  long  ravine 
Kan  up  into  the  land  and  cut  us  off". 
Pushing  out  slippery  ledges  for  the  birds, 
And  rent  with  many  a  crevice,  where  the  wind 
liad  laid  up  drifts  of  empty  egg-shells,  swept 
From  the  bare  berths  of  gulls  and  guillomota. 

So  as  it  chanced  we  lighted  on  a  path 
That  led  into  a  nutwood  \  and  our  talk 
NVas  louder  than  beseemed,  if  we  had  known, 
With  argument  and  laughter  ;  for  the  path. 
As  we  sped  onward,  took  a  sudden  turn 
Abrupt,  and  we  came  out  on  churchyard  grass. 
And  close  upon  a  porch,  and  face  to  face 
With  those  within,  and  with  the  thirty  graves. 


B POTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON.  153 

We  heard  the  voice  of  one  who  preached  within. 
And  stopped.  "  GoTne  on,"  luy  brother  whispered  me  ; 
"  It  were  uiore  decent  that  we  enter  now ; 
Come  on  !  we'll  hear  this  rare  old  demigod  : 
I  like  strong  men  and  large  ;  I  like  gray  heads, 
And  grand  grnfT  voices,  hoarse  though  this  may  be 
With  shouting  in  the  storm." 

It  was  not  hoarse, 
The  voice  that  preached  to  those  few  fishermen, 
And  women,  nursing  mothers  with  the  babes 
Hushed  on  their  breasts  ;  and  yet  it  held  them  not : 
Their  drowsy  eyes  were  drawn  to  look  at  us. 
Till,  having  leaned  our  rods  against  the  wall, 
And  left  the  dogs  at  watch,  we  entered,  sat. 
And  were  apprised  that,  though  he  saw  us  not, 
The  parson  knew  that  he  had  lost  the  eyes 
And  ears  of  those  before  him,  for  he  made 
A  pause — a  long  dead  pause— and  dropped  his  ariiis, 
And  stood  awaiting,  till  1  felt  the  red 
Mount  to  my  brow. 

And  a  soft  fluttering  stir 
Passed  over  all,  and  every  mother  hushed 
The  babe  beneath  her  shawl,  and  he  turned  round 
And  met  our  eyes,  unused  to  diffidence, 
But  diffident  of  his  ;  then  with  a  sigh 
Fronted  the  folk,  lifted  his  grand  gray  head, 
And  said,  as  one  that  pondered  now  the  wordd 
He  liad  been  preaching  on  witli  new  surprise, 
And  found  fresh  marvel  in  their  sound,  "  Behold  t 
Behold  I"  saith  lie,  "  1  stand  at  the  door  and  knock." 

Then  said  the  parson  :  "  Whatl  and  shall  lie  wait, 
And  must  He  wait,  not  only  till  we  say, 
'Good  Lord,  the  house  is  clean,  the  hearth  is  swept, 
The  children  sleep,  the  mackerel-boats  are  in, 
And  till  the  nets  are  mended  ;  tlierttore  1 


154  BROTHERS.  AND  A  SERMON. 


"Will  slowly  to  ihe  door  and  open  it ; ' 

But  must  He  also  wait  where  still,  behold  ! 

He    stands  and  knocks,    while   Ave   do     say,    '  (iood 

Lord, 
The  gentlefolk  are  come  to  worship  here. 
And  I  will  up  and  open  to  Thee  soon  ; 
But  first  1  pray  a  little  lonjier  wait, 
For  I  am  taken  up  with  them  ;  my  eyes 
Must  needs  regard  the  fashion  of  their  clothes, 
And  count  the  gains  I  think  to  make  by  them  ; 
Forsooth,  they  are  of  much  account,  good  l^ord  I 
Therefore  have  patience  with  me — Avait,  dear  Loidt 
Or  come  again  ? ' 

"  What !  must  He  Avn  it  for  this— 
For  this?     Ay,  He  doth  wait  for  this,  and  stili, 
Waiting  for  this,  Hi,  patient,  raileth  not ; 
Waiting  for  this,  e'en  tliis  He  saith,  '  Behold  \ 
I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock.' 

"O  patient  hand 
Knocking  and  Avaiting — knocking  in  tlie  night 
When  work  i«  donel     I  charge  you,  by  the  sea 
AVliereby  you  fill  your  children's  mouths,  and  by 
The  might  of  Him  that  made  it — fishermen  i 
1  fJiarge  you,  mothers  !  by  the  mother's  milk 
II(^  drew,  and  by  His  Father,  God  OA-er  all. 
Blessed  forever,  that  ye  answer  Him  ! 
Open  the  door  Avith  shame,  if  ye  have  sinned  j 
If  ye  be  sorry,  open  it  Avith  sighs. 
Albeit  the  place  be  bare  for  poverty, 
An<l  comfortless  for  lack  of  plenishing, 
Be  not  abashed  for  that,  but  open  it, 
And  take  Him  in  that  comes  to  sup  Avith  thee  ; 
'  Behold  I  '  He  saith,  '  I  stand  at  the  door  and  knot;k 

•'  Now,  hear  me:  there  be  troubles  in  this  world 
That  ao  man  can  escape,  and  there  is  (Jiie 


BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON.  15; 


That  lieth  hard  and  hea\Tr  on  my  soul, 
Concerning  that  which  is  to  come  : — 

I  say 

As  a  man  that  knows  what  earthly  trouble  means, 

1  will  not  bear  this  q-^^ — 1  cannot  bear 

This  ONE — I  cannot  bear  the  weight  of  you — 

You — every  one  of  you,  body  and  soul ; 

You.  with  the  care  you  suffer,  and  the  loss 

Tiiat  you  sustain  ;  you,  with  the  growing  up 

To  peril,  maybe  with  the  growing  old 

T()  want,  unless  before  I  stand  with  you 

At  the  great  white  throne,  I  may  be  free  of  all. 

And  utter  to  the  full  what  shall  discharge 

Mine  obligation  :  nay,  I  will  not  wait 

A  day,  for  every  time  the  black  clouds  rise, 

And  the  gale  freshens,  still  I  search  my  soul 

To  find  if  there  be  aught  that  can  persuade 

To  good,  or  aught  forsooth  that  can  beguile 

From  evil,  that  I  (miserable  man  ! 

If  that  be  so)  have  left  unsaid,  undone. 

"  So  that  when  any  risen  from  sunken  wrecks, 

Or  rolled  in  by  the  billows  to  the  edge 

Of  the  everlasting  strand,  what  time  the  sea 

Gives  up  her  dead,  shall  meet  me,  they  may  say 

Never,  '  Old  man,  you  told  us  not  of  this  ; 

Y'ou  left  us  fisher-lads  that  had  to  toil 

Ever  in  danger  of  the  secret  stab 

Of  rocks,  far  deadlier  than  the  dagger  ;  winds 

Of  lireathmore  murderous  than  the  cannon's;  waves 

Mighty  to  rock  us  to  our  doatli  ;  and  gulfs 

Ready  beneatli  to  suck  and  swallow  us  in  : 

This  crime  be  on  your  head  ;  and  as  for  us — 

Wliat  shall  wc;  do  ?  '  but  ratlier — nay,  not  so, 

1  will  not  think  it ;  I  will  leave  the  dead, 

Ajipealing  but  to  life  :  1  am  afraid 

Of  you,  but  not  so  much  if  you  have  sinned 


I5&  BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON. 

As  for  the  doubt  if  sin  shall  be  forgiven. 

The  day  was,  I  have  been  afraid  of  pride — 

Hard  man's  hard  pride  ;  but  now  I  aiu  afraid 

Of  man's  humility,     I  counsel  you, 

By  the  great  God's  great  humbleness,  and  by 

Ills  pity,  be  not  humble  over-much. 

See  I  I  will  show  at  whose  unopened  doors 

He  stands  and  knocks,  that  you  may  never  say, 

'  I  am  too  mean,  too  ignorant,  too  lost ; 

Be  knocks  at  other  doors,  but  not  at  mine.' 

"  See  here  !  it  is  the  night !  it  is  the  night ! 
And  snow  lies  thickly,  white  untrodden  snow, 
And  the  wan  moon  upon  a  casement  shines — 
A  casement  crusted  o'er  with  frosty  leaves, 
That  make  her  ray  less  bright  along  the  floor. 
A  woman  sits,  with  hands  ujjon  her  knees, 
Poor  tired  soul  !  and  she  has  naught  to  do, 
For  there  is  neitiier  fire  nor  candle  light : 
The  driftwood  ash  lies  cold  upon  her  hearth  ; 
The  rushlight  flickered  down  an  hour  ago  ; 
Her  children  wail  a  little  in  their  sleep 
For  cold  and  hunger  ;  and,  as  if  that  sound 
Was  not  enough,  another  comes  to  her, 
Over  God's  undefiled  snow — a  song — 
Nay,  never  hang  your  heads — I  say,  a  song. 

"  And  doth  she  curse  the  alehouse,  and  the  v«iotB 
That  drink  the  night  out  and  their  earning  tliere, 
And  drink  their  manly  strength  and  courage  liuw.'i; 
And  drink  away  the  little  children's  bread, 
And  starve  her,  starving  by  the  self-same  act 
Her  tender  suckling,  that  with  piteous  eyes 
IiO()ks  in  her  face,  till  scarcely  she  has  heart 
To  work  and  earn  the  scanty  bit  and  drop 
That  feed  the  others li' 

"  Does  she  curse  the  sonj;  ? 
1  think  not,  fishermen  ;  I  have  not  heard 


BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON.  157 

Such  women  curse.     God's  curse  is  curse  enough. 
To-morrow  she  will  say  a  bitter  thing, 
Pulling  her  sleeve  down  lest  the  bruises  show^ 
A  bitter  thing,  but  meant  for  an  excuse — 
'  My  master  is  not  worse  than  many  men  : ' 
But  now,  ay,  now  she  sitteth  dumb  and  still  ; 
No  food,  no  comfort,  cold  and  jjoverty 
Bearing  her  down. 

"  My  heart  is  sore  for  her  ; 
How  long,  how  long  ?     When  troubles  come  of  God, 
When  men  are  frozen  out  of  work,  when  wives 
Are  sick,  when  working  fathers  fail  and  die, 
When  boats  go  down  at  sea — then  naught  behooves 
Like  patience  ;  but  for  troubles  wrought  of  men 
Patience  is  hard — I  tell  you  it  is  hard, 

*'  O  thou  poor  soul  1  it  is  the  night — the  night ; 

Against  thy  door  drifts  up  the  silent  snow, 

Blockingthy  threshold  :  '  Fall,'  thou  sayest,  '  fall,  f;ill 

Cold  snow,  and  lie  and  be  trod  underfoot. 

Am  not  I  fallen  ?  wake  up  and  pipe,  O  wind. 

Dull  wind,  and  beat  and  bluster  at  my  door  : 

Merciful  wind,  sing  me  a  hoarse  rough  song, 

For  there  is  other  music  made  to-night 

That  I  would  fain  not  hear.     Wake,  thou  still  sea, 

Heavily  plunge.     Shoot  on,  white  waterfall. 

O,  I  could  long  like  thy  cold  icicles 

Freeze,  freeze,  and  hang  upon  the  frosty  clift 

And  not  complain,  so  I  might  melt  at  last 

In  the  warm  summer  sun,  as  thou  wilt  do  ! 

"  '  But  woe  is  me  !     I  think  there  is  no  sun  ; 
My  sun  is  sunken,  and  the  night  grows  dark  : 
None  care  for  me.     The  children  cry  for  bread, 
And  I  have  none,  and  naught  can  comfort  me  ; 
Even  if  the  heavens  were  free  to  such  as  I, 
It  were  not  much,  for  death  is  long  to  wait. 
And  heaven  is  far  to  go  I ' 


158  BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON. 

"  And  speak'st  thou  thus, 
Despairing  of  the  sun  that  sets  to  thee, 
And  of  the  earthly  love  that  wanes  to  thee, 
And  of  the  heaven  that  lieth  far  from  thee  ? 
Peace,  peace,  fond  fool !     One  draweth  near  thy  door 
Whose  footsteps  leave  no  print  across  the  snow  : 

hy  sun  has  risen  with  comfort  in  his  face. 
The  smile  of  heaven,  to  warm  thy  frozen  heart 
And  bless  with  saintly  hand.     What  I  is  it  long 
To  wait,  and  far  to  go  ?     Thou  shalt  not  go  ; 
Behold,  across  the  snow  to  thee  He  comes, 
Thy  heaven  descends  ;  and  is  it  long  to  wait  ? 
Thou  shalt  not  wait :  '  This  night,  this  night,'  He  saitb, 
'  I  stand  at  the  door  and  knock.' 


"  It  is  enough — can  such  an  one  be  here 
Yea,  here  ?     O  God  forgive  you  fishermen  ! 
One  1  is  there  only  one  ?     But  do  thou  know> 

0  woman  pale  for  want,  if  thou  art  here, 

That  on  thy  lot  much  thought  is  spent  in  heaven  j 
And,  coveting  the  heart  a  hard  man  broke, 
One  standeth  patient,  watching  in  the  night, 
And  waiting  in  the  day-time. 

"  What  shall  be 
If  tliou  wilt  answer?     He  will  smile  on  thee  ; 
One  smile  of  His  shall  be  enough  to  heal 
The  wound  of  man's  neglect  ;  and  He  will  sigh, 
Pitying  the  trouble  which  that  sigh  shall  cure  ; 
And  He  will  speak — speak  in  the  desolate  night, 
In  the  dark  night  :  '  For  me  a  thorny  crown 
Men  wove,  and  nails  were  driven  in  my  hands 
And  feet :  there  was  an  eartlKpiake,  and  1  died  j 

1  died,  and  am  alive  forevermore. 

*'  *  I  died  for  thoo  ;  for  thee  I  am  alive, 
And  my  humanity  doth  mourn  for  thee. 
For  thou  art  niiue  ;  and  all  thy  little  ones, 


BROTITERS,  AND  A  SERMON.  159 

They,  too,  are  mine,  are  mine.     Behold,  the  house 

I.s  dark,  Tint  there  is  brightness  where  the  sons 

Of  God  are  singing  ;  and,  behold,  the  heart 

Is  troubled  :  yet  the  nations  walk  in  white  : 

They  have  forgotten  how  to  weep  ;  and  thou 

Shalt  also  come,  and  I  will  foster  thee 

And  satisfy  thy  soul  ;  and  thou  shalt  warm 

Thy  trembling  life  beneath  the  smile  of  Grod. 

A  little  while — it  is  a  little  while — 

A  httle  while,  and  I  will  comfort  thee  ; 

i  go  away,  but  I  will  come  again.' 

"But  hear  me  yet.     There  was  a  poor  old  man 

Who  sat  and  listened  to  the  raging  sea. 

And  heard  it  thunder,  lunging  at  the  cliffs 

As  like  to  tear  them  down,     lie  lay  at  night ; 

And  '  Lord  have  mercy  on  the  lads,'  said  he, 

'  That  sailed  at  noon,  though  they  be  none  of  mine  I 

For  when  the  gale  gets  up,  and  when  the  wind 

Flings  at  the  window,  when  it  beats  the  roof, 

And  lulls,  and  stops,  and  rouses  up  again, 

And  cuts  the  crest  clean  off  the  i)lunging  wtive. 

And  scatters  it  like  feathers  up  the  field, 

Why,  then  I  think  of  my  two  lads  :  ray  lads 

That  would  have  worked  and  never  let  me  want, 

And  never  let  me  take  the  parish  pay. 

No,  none  of  mine  ;  my  lads  were  drowned  at  sea 

My  two — before  the  most  of  these  were  born. 

I  know  how  sharp  that  cuts,  since  my  poor  wife 

Walked  up  and  down,  .and  still  walked  up  and  down, 

And  I  walked  after,  and  one  conld  not  hear 

A  word  the  other  said,  for  wind  and  sea 

That  raged  and  beat  and  thundered  in  the  night — 

The  awfullest,  tlie  longest,  lightest  night 

That  ever  parents  had  to  spend — a  moon 

That  shone  like  daylight  on  the  breaking  wave. 

Ah  me  I  and  other  men  have  lust  their  lads, 


l6o  BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON. 

And  other  women  wiped  their  poor  dead  mouths, 
And  got  them  home  and  dried  them  in  the  house. 
And  seen  the  driftwood  lie  along  the  coast 
Tliat  was  a  tidy  boat  but  one  day  back, 
And  seen  next  tide  the  neighbors  gather  it 
To  lay  it  on  their  fires. 

Ay,  I  was  strons; 
And  able-bodied — loved  my  work  ; — buu  n«jw 
I  am  a  useless  hull :  'tis  time  I  sunk  ; 
I  am  in  all  men's  way  ;  I  trouble  them  ; 
1  am  a  trouble  to  myself;  but  yet 
1  feel  for  mariners  of  stormy  nights, 
And  feel  for  wives  that  watch  ashore.     Ay,  ay ! 
If  I  had  learning  I  would  pray  the  Lord 
To  bring  them  in  :  but  I'm  no  scholar,  no ; 
Book-learning  is  a  world  too  hard  for  me  : 
But  I  make  bold  to  say,  O  Lord,  good  Lord, 
I  am  a  broken-down  poor  man,  a  fool 
To  speak  to  Thee  :  but  in  the  Book  'tis  writ. 
As  I  hear  say  from  others  that  can  read. 
How,  when  Thou  comest.  Thou  didst  love  the  sea, 
And  live  with  fisherfolk,  whereby  'tis  sure 
Thou  knowest  all  the  peril  they  go  through, 
And  all  their  trouble. 

As  for  me,  good  Lord, 
I  have  no  boat ;  I  am  too  old,  too  old — 
My  lads  are  drowned  ;  I  buried  my  poor  wife  ; 
My  little  lasses  died  so  long  ago 
Tliat  mostly  I  forget  what  they  were  like. 
Thou  knowest.  Lord  :  they  were  such  little  ones 
I  know  they  went  to  thee,  but  I  forget 
Their  faces,  though  I  missed  them  sore. 

O  L<»ra, 
I  was  a  strong  man  ;  I  have  drawn  good  food 
And  made  good  money  out  of  Thy  fcreat  sea : 
But  yet  I  cried  for  them  at  nights  ;  and  now, 
Although  I  be  so  old,  1  miss  my  lads, 


BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON.  162 


And  there  be  many  folk  this  stormy  night 
Heavy  with  fear  for  theirs.     Merciful  Lord. 
Comfort  them  ;  save  their  honest  boys,  their  pride. 
And  let  them  hear  next  ebb  the  blessedest, 
Best  sound — the  boat  keels  grating  on  the  sand. 

"  '  I  cannot  pray  with  finer  words  :  I  know 

Nothing  ;  I  have  no  learning,  cannot  learn — 

Too  old,  too  old.     They  say  I  want  for  naught, 

I  have  the  parish  pay  ;  but  I  am  dull 

Of  hearing,  and  the  fire  scarce  warms  me  through. 

God  save  me — I  have  been  a  sinful  man — 

And  save  the  lives  of  them  that  still  can  work, 

For  they  are  good  to  me  ;  ay,  good  to  me. 

But,  Lord,  I  am  a  trouble !  and  I  sit. 

And  I  am  lonesome,  and  the  nights  are  few 

That  any  think  to  come  and  draw  a  chair, 

And  sit  in  my  poor  place  and  talk  awhile. 

Why  should  they  come,  forsootli  ?    Only  the  wind 

Knocks  at  my  door,  O  long  and  loud  it  knocks. 

The  only  thing  God  made  that  has  a  mind 

To  enter  in.' 

"  Yea,  thus  the  old  man  spake  ; 

These  were  the  last  words  of  his  aged  mouth — 

But  0^'E  niD  knock.     One  came  to  sup  with  him, 

That  humble,  Aveak  old  man  ;  knocked  at  liis  dooT 

In  the  rough  pauses  of  the  laboring  wind. 

I  tell  you  that  One  knocked  while  it  was  dark, 

Rave  where  their  foaming  passion  had  made  white 

Tliost-;  livid  seething  billows.     What  lie  said 

In  tlicit  poor  i)]ace  where  lie  did  talk  awliile 

i  cannot  tell ;  but  this  I  am  assured, 

That  when  the  neighbors  came  the  morrow  morn. 

What  time  the  wind  had  ])ate(l.  and  tlie  sun 

Shone  on  the  old  mans  fioor,  they  saw  tlie  smile 

Qe  passed  away  in,  and  they  said,  '  He  looks 

As  he  had  woke  and  seen  the  face  of  Christ, 

11 


1 62  BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON. 

And  with  that  rapturous  smile  held  out  his  arms 
To  come  to  Him  1  ' 

"Can  such  an  one  be  here. 
So  old,  so  weak,  so  ignorant,  so  frail  ? 
The  Lord  be  good  to  thee,  thou  poor  old  man  ; 
It  would  be  hard  with  thee  if  heaven  were  shut 
To  such  as  have  not  learning  !     Nay,  nay,  nay, 
He  condescends  to  them  of  low  estate  : 
To  such  as  are  despised  He  cometh  down, 
Stands  at  the  door  and  knocks, 

"  Yet  bear  with  mo. 
I  have  a  message  ;  I  have  more  to  say. 
Shall  sorrow  win  His  pity,  and  not  sin — 
That  burden  t^rv  times  heavier  to  be  borne  ? 
What  think  you  ?     Shall  the  virtuous  have  His  care 
Alone  ?     O  virtuous  women,  think  not  scorn, 
For  you  may  lift  your  faces  everywhere  ; 
And  now  that  it  grows  dusk,  and  I  can  see 
None  though  they  front  me  straight,  I  fain  would  tell 
A  certain  thing  to  you.     I  say  to  yoii  ; 
And  if  it  doth  concern  you,  as  methinks 
It  doth,  then  surely  it  concerneth  all. 
I  say  that  there  was  once — I  say  not  here — 
I  say  that  there  was  once  a  castaway. 
And  she  was  weeping,  weeping  bitterly  ; 
Kneeling,  and  crying  with  a  heart-sick  cry 
That  choked  itself  in  sobs — 'O  my  good  name  ! 
O  my  good  name  !  '     And  none  did  hear  her  cry  I 
Nay  ;  and  it  lightened,  and  the  storm-bolts  fell, 
And  the  rain  splashed  upon  the  roof,  and  still 
She,  storm-tost  as  the  storming  elements — 
She  cried  vrith  an  exceeding  bitter  cry, 
'  O  my  good  name! '     And  then  the  thunder-cloud 
Stooped  low  and  burst  in  darkness  overhead, 
And  rolled,  and  rocked  her  on  her  knees,  and  shooli 
The  frail  foundations  of  her  dwelling-place. 


BROTHtKH.  AND  A  SERMON.  163 


But  she — if  any  neighbor  had  coTne  in 
(None  did) :  if  any  neighbors  had  come  in, 
They  might  have  seen  her  crying  on  her  knees, 
And  sobbing,  '  Lost,  lost,  lost!  '  beating  her  breast— 
Her  breast  forever  pricked  with  cruel  thorns. 
The  wounds  whereof  could  neither  balm  assuage 
Nor  any  patience  heal — beating  her  brow, 
Which  ached,  it  had  been  bent  so  long  to  hide 
From  level  eyes,  whose  meaning  was  contempt, 

*'  O  ye  good  women,  it  is  hard  to  leave 
The  paths  of  virtue,  and  return  again. 
What  if  this  sinner  wept,  and  none  of  you 
Comforted  her  ?     And  what  if  she  did  strive 
To  mend,  and  none  of  you  believed  her  strife, 
Nor  looked  upon  her  ?     Mark,  I  do  not  say, 
Though  it  was  hard,  you  therefore  were  to  blame 
That  she  had  aught  against  you,  though  your  feet 
Never  drew  near  her  door.     But  I  beseech 
Your  patience.     Once  in  old  Jerusalem 
A  woman  kneeled  at  consecrated  feet, 
Kissed  them,  and  washed  them  with  her  tears. 

What  then  ? 
I  think  that  yet  our  Lord  is  pitiful : 
1  think  I  see  the  castaway  e'en  now ! 
And  she  is  not  alone:  the  heavy  rain 
Splashes  without,  and  sullen  thunder  rolls. 
But  she  is  lying  at  the  sacred  feet 
Of  One  transfigured. 

'•  And  her  tears  flow  down, 
Down  to  her  lips — her  lips  that  kiss  the  print 
Of  nails  ;  and  love  is- like  to  break  her  heart  I 
Love  and  repentance — for  it  still  doth  work 
Sore  in  her  soul  to  think,  to  think  tliat  she, 
Even  she.  ditl  pierce  the  sacred,  sacred  feet,  1 
A-nd  bruise  the  thorn-crowucd  head. 


l64  BROTHERS,  AND  A  SERMON. 

"  O  Lord,  our  Lord, 
How  great  is  Thy  compassion  !     Come,  good  Lord, 
For  we  will  open.     Come  this  night,  good  Lord ; 
Stand  at  the  door  and  knock. 

"And  is  this  all? 
Trouble,  old  age  and  simpleness,  and  sin — 
This  all  ?     It  might  be  all  some  other  night ; 
But  this  night,  if  a  voice  said,  '  Give  account 
Whom  hast  thou  with  thee  ? '  then  must  I  reply, 
'Young  manhood  have  I, beautiful  youth  a,nd  strength 
Rich  with  all  treasure  drawn  up  from  the  crypt 
Where  lies  the  learning  of  the  ancient  world — 
Brave  with  all  thoughts  that  poets  fling  upon 
The  strand  of  life,  as  driftweed  after  storms  : 
Doubtless  familiar  with  Thy  mountain  heads, 
And  the  dread  purity  of  Alpine  snows. 
Doubtless  familiar  Avith  Thy  works  concealed 
For  ages  from  mankind — outlying  worlds, 
And  many  mooned  spheres — and  Thy  great  store 
Of  stars,  more  thick  than  meajy   dust  which  here 
Powders  the  pale  leaves  of  auriculas. 

"  '  This  do  I  know,  but.  Lord,  I  know  not  more. 

■"  '  Not  more  concerning  them — concerning  Thee, 
I  know  Thy  bounty  ;  where  Thou  givest  umch 
Standing  without,  if  any  call  Thee  in 
Thou  givest  more.'     Speak,  then,  O  rich  and  strong  : 
Open,  O  happy  young,  ere  yet  the  hand 
Of  Him  that  knocks,  wearied  at  last,  forbear  ; 
The  patient  foot  its  thankless  quest  refrain. 
The  wounded  heart  forevermore  withdraw." 

I  have  heard  many  speak,  but  this  one  man — 
Po  anxious  not  to  go  to  heaven  alone — 
This  one  man  I  remember,  and  his  look, 
Till  twilight  overshadowed  him.     He  ceased, 


A   WEDDING  SONG.  1C5 


And  out  in  darkness  with  the  fisher  folk 

We  passed  and  stumbled  over  mounds  of  moss. 

And  heard,  but  did  not  see,  the  passing  beck. 

Ah,  graceless  heart,  would  that  it  could  regain 

From  the  dim  storehouse  of  sensations  past 

The  impress  full  of  tender  awe,  that  night, 

Which  fell  on  me  !     It  was  as  if  the  Christ 

Had  been  drawn  down  from  heaven  to  track  us  homo 

And  any  of  the  footsteps  following  us 

Might  have  been  His. 


A  WEDDING  SONG. 

Come  up  the  broad  river,  the  Thames,  my  Dan 3 

My  Dane  with  the  beautiful  eyes  ! 
Thousands  and  thousands  await  thee  full  fain. 

And  talk  of  the  wind  and  the  skies. 
Fear  not  from  folk  and  from  country  to  part, 

O,  I  swear  it  is  wisely  done  ; 
For  (I  said)  I  will  bear  me  by  thee,  sweetheart, 

As  becometh  my  father's  son. 

Great  London  Avas  shouting  as  I  went  down, 

"  She  is  worthy,"  I  said,  "  of  this  ; 
What  shall  I  give  who  have  promised  a  crown  ? 

O,  first  I  will  give  her  a  kiss." 
So  I  kissed  her  and  brought  her,  my  Dane,  my  Dane 

Through  the  waving  wonderful  crowd  : 
Thousands  and  thousands,  they  shouted  amain. 

Like  mighty  thunders  and  loud. 

And  they  said,  "  He  is  young,  the  lad  we  love. 

The  heir  of  the  Isles  is  young  : 
How  we  deem  of  his  mother,  and  one  gone  above, 

Can  neither  be  said  nor  sung. 


1 66  THE  FOUR  BRIDGES. 


He  brings  us  a  pledge  -he  will  do  bis  part 
V/ith  the  best  of  his  race  and  name  ; — " 

And  I  will,  for  I  look  to  live,  sweetheart, 
As  may  suit  with  my  mother's  fame. 


THE  FOUR  BRIDGES. 

I  LOVE  this  gray  old  church,  the  low,  long  nave, 
The  ivied  chancel  and  the  slender  spire  ; 

No  less  its  shadow  on  each  heaving  grave, 
With  growing  osier  bound,  or  living  briar  ; 

I  love  those  yew-tree  trunks,  where  stand  arrayed 

So  many  deep-cut  names  of  youth  and  maid, 

A  simple  custom  this — I  love  it  well — 
A  carved  bethrothal  and  a  pledge  of  truth  ; 

Qow  many  an  eve,  their  linked  names  to  spell, 
Beneath  the  j^ew-trees  sat  our  village  youth  I 

When  work  was  over,  and  the  new-cut  hay 

Sent  wafts  of  balm  from  meadows  where  it  lay. 

Ah  !  many  an  eve,  while  I  was  yet  a  boy. 
Some  village  hind  has  beckoned  me  aside. 

And  sought  mine  aid,  with  shy  and  awkward  joy, 
To  carve  the  letters  of  his  rustic  bride. 

And  make  them  clear  to  r<;ad  as  graven  stone. 

Deep  in  the  yew-tree's  trunk  beside  his  own. 

For  none  could  carve  like  me,  and  here  they  stand, 
Fathei'S  and  mothers  of  the  present  race  ; 

And  underscored  by  some  less  practised  hand, 
That  fain  the  story  of  its  line  Avould  trace, 

With  children's  names,  and  number,  and  the  day 

Wliou  any  called  to  (iod  have  passed  away. 


THE  FOUR  BRIDGES.  167 

I  look  upon  them,  and  I  turn  aside, 
As  oft  when  carving  them  I  did  erewhile  ; 

And  there  I  see  those  wooden  bridges  wide 
That  cross  the  marshy  hollow ;  there  the  stile 

In  reeds  imbedded,  and  the  swelling  down. 

And  the  white  road  toward  the  distant  town. 

But  those  old  bridges  claim  another  look. 

Our  brattling  river  tumbles  through  the  one  ; 
The  second  spans  a  shallow,  weedy  brook  ; 

Beneath  the  others,  and  beneath  the  sun, 
Lie  two  long  stilly  pools,  and  on  their  breasts 
Picture    their  wooden   piles,   encased  in    swallow's 
nests. 

And  round  about  them  grows  a  fringe  of  reeds, 
And  then  a  floating  croAvn  of  lily  flowers, 

And  yet  within  small  silver-budded  weeds  ; 
But  each  clear  centre  evermore  embowers 

A  deeper  sky,  where,  stooping,  you  may  see 

The  little  minnows  darting  restlessly. 

My  heart  is  bitter,  lilies,  at  your  sweet ; 

Wliy  (lid  the  dewdrop  fringe  your  chalices  ? 
Why  in  your  beauty  are  you  thus  complete, 

You  silver  ships — you  floating  palaces? 
O  I  if  need  be,  you  must  allure  man's  eye, 
Yot  wherefore  blossom  here  ?     O  wliy  ?     O  why  F 

O  1  O  !  the  world  is  wide,  you  lily  flowers, 
It  hath  warm  forests,  cleft  bj'^  stilly  pools, 

Where  every    night    bathe   crowds   of    stars ;    and 
bowers 
Of  spicery  hang  over.     Sweet  air  cools 

And  shakes  the  lilies  among  those  stars  that  lie  ; 

Why  are  not  ye  content  to  reign  there  ?    Why  ? 


im  THE  FOUR  BRIDGES. 

Tiiat  chain  of  bricl<res,  it  were  hard  to  tell 
How  it  is  linked  with  all  my  early  joy. 

There  was  a  little  foot  that  I  loved  well, 
It  danced  across  them  when  I  Avas  a  boy ; 

There  was  a  careless  voice  that  used  to  sing  ; 

There  was  a  child,  a  sweet  and  happy  thing. 

Oft  through  that  matted  wood  of  oak  and  birch 
She  came  from  yonder  house  upon  the  hill ; 

She  crossed  the  wooden  bridges  to  the  church, 
And  watched,  with  village  girls,  my  boasted  sldll 

But  loved  to  Avatch  the  floating  lilies  best, 

Or  linger,  peering  in  a  swallow's  nest ; 

Linger  and  linger,  with  her  wistful  eyes 
Drawn  to  the  lily-buds  that  lay  so  white 

And  soft  on  crimson  water ;  for  the  skies 

Would  crimson,  and  the  little  cloudlets  bright 

Would  all  be  flung  among  the  flowers  sheer  dowr:, 

To  flush  the  spaces  of  their  clustering  crown. 

Till  the  green  rushes — O,  so  glossy  green — 

The  rushes,  they  would  whisper,  rustle,  shake  ; 

And  forth  on  floating  gauze,  no  jewelled  queen 
So  rich,  the  green-eyed  dragon-flies  would  break. 

And  hover  on  the  flowers — aerial  things, 

With  little  rainbows  flickering  on  their  wings. 

Ah  I  my  heart  dear  I  the  polished  pools  lie  still, 
Like  lanes  of  water  reddened  by  the  west. 

Till,  swooping  down  from  yon  o'erhanging  hill. 
The  bold  marsh  harrier  wets  her  tawny  breast ; 

We  scared  her  oft  in  childhood  from  her  prey, 

And  th'i  old  eager  thoughts  rise  fresh  as  yesterday. 

To  yonder  copse  by  moonlight  I  did  go. 

In  luxury  of  mischief,  half  afraid. 
To  steal  the  grea.L  owl'cj  Urood,  her  downy  snow, 


THE  FOUR  BRIDGES.  ibQ 

J  ler  screaming  imps  to  seize,  the  while  she  prcye'^ 
With  yellow,  cruel  eyes,  whose  radiant  glare, 
Fell  with  their  mother  rage,  I  might  not  dare. 

Panting  I  lay  till  her  great  fanning  wings 

Troubled   the  dreams  of    rock-doves,   slumbering 
nigh. 

And  she  and  her  fierce  mate,  like  evil  things, 
Skimmed  the  dusk  fields  ;  then  rising,  with  a  cry 

Of  fear,  joy,  triumph,  darted  on  my  prey, 

And  tore  it  from  the  nest  and  fled  away. 

But  afterward,  belated  in  the  wood, 

I  saw  her  moping  on  the  rifled  tree. 
And  my  heart  smote  me  for  her,  while  I  stood 

Awakened  from  my  careless  reverie  ; 
So  white  she  looked,  with  moonlight  round  her  shed, 
So  motherlike  she  drooped  and  hung  her  head. 

O  that  mine  eyes  would  cheat  me  I    I  behold 
The  godwits  running  by  the  water  edge. 

The  mossy  bridges  mirrored  as  of  old  ; 

The  little  curlews  creeping  from  the  sedge, 

But  not  the  little  foot  so  gayly  light ; 

O  that  mine  eyes  would  cheat  me,  that  I  might  i — 

Would  cheat  me  1     I  behold  the  gable-ends — 
Those  purple  pigeons  clustering  on  the  cote  \ 

The  lane  with  maples  overhung,  that  bends 
Toward  her  dwelling  ;  the  dry  grassy  moat. 

Thick  muUions,  diamond-latticed,  mossed  and  gray. 

And  walls  banked  up  with  laurel  and  with  bay. 

And  up  behind  them  yellow  fields  of  corn, 
And  still  ascending  countless  firry  spires, 

Dry  slopes  of  hills  uncultured,  bare,  forlorn, 

And  green  in  rocky  clefts  with  whins  and  briars ; 

Then  rich  cloud  masses  dyed  the  violet's  hue, 

V/itk  orange  sunbeams  dropping  swiftly  througli. 


I70  THE  FOUR  BRIDGES. 

Ay,  I  behold  all  this  full  easily ; 

My  soul  is  jealous  of  my  happier  eyes, 
And  manhood  envies  youth.     Ah,  strange  to  see, 

By  looking  merely,  orange-flooded  skies  ; 
Nay,  any  dew-drop  that  may  near  me  shine: 
But  never  more  the  face  of  Eglantine  ! 

She  was  my  one  companion,  being  herself 
The  jewel  and  adornment  of  my  days. 

My  life's  completeness      O,  a  smiling  elf, 
That  I  do  but  disparage  with  my  praise — 

My  playmate  ;  and  I  loved  her  dearly  and  long. 

And  she  loved  me,  as  the  tender  love  the  strong. 

Ay,  but  she  grew,  till  on  a  time  there  came 
A  sudden  restless  yearning  to  my  heart ; 

And  as  we  went  a-nesting,  all  for  shame 

And  shyness,  I  did  hold  my  peace,  and  start  j 

Content  departed,  comfort  shut  me  out, 

And  there  was  nothing  left  to  talk  about. 

She  had  but  sixteen  years,  and  as  for  me, 
Four  added  made  my  life.     This  pretty  bird, 

This  fairy  bird  that  I  had  cherished — she, 

Content,  had  sung,  while  I,  contented,  heard. 

The  song  had  ceased  ;  the  bird,  with  nature's  art, 

Had  brought  a  thorn  and  set  it  in  my  heart. 

The  restless  birth  of  love  my  soul  opprest ; 

I  longed  and  wrestled  for  a  tranquil  day, 
And  Avarred  with  that  disquiet  in  my  breast 

As  one  who  knows  there  is  a  better  Avay  ; 
But,  turned  against  myself,  I  still  in  vain 
Looked  for  the  ancient  calm  to  come  a.gain. 

My  tired  soul  could  to  itself  confess 

Tluit  she  deserved  a  wiser  love  than  mine  ; 
To  love  more  truly  were  to  love  her  less, 


THE  FOUR  BRIDGES.  i?* 


And  for  this  truth  I  still  awoke  to  pine : 
I  had  a  dim  belief  that  it  would  be 
A  better  thing  for  her,  a  blessed  thing  for  me. 

Good  hast  Thou  made  them — comforters  right  sweet ; 

Good  hast  Thou  made  the  world,  to  mankind  lent; 
Good  are  Thy  dropping  clouds  that  feed  the  wheat ; 

Good  are  Thy  stars-above  the  firmament. 
Take  to  Thee,  take,  Thy  worship.  Thy  renown ; 
The   good   which   Thou   hast  made   doth  wear  Thy 
crown. 

For,  O  my  God,  Thy  creatures  are  so  frail, 

Thy  bountiful  creation  is  so  fair, 
That,  drawn  before  us  like  the  temple  veil. 

It  hides  the  Holy  Place  from  thought  and  care, 
Giving  man's  eyes  instead  its  sweeping  fold. 
Rich  as  with  cherub  wings  and  apples  wi'ought  of 
gold. 

Purple  and  blue  and  scarlet — shimmering  bells 
And  rare  pomegranates  on  its  broidered  rim. 

Glorious  with  chain  and  fretwork  that  the  swell 
Of  incense  shakes  to  music  dreamy  and  dim. 

Till  on  a  day  comes  loss,  that  God  makes  gain, 

And  death  and  darkness  rend  the  veil  in  twain. 

«  «  «  «  iH  M<  4> 

Ah,  sweetest!  my  beloved  1  each  outward  thing 
Recalls  my  youth,  and  is  instinct  witli  thoe  ; 

Brown  wood-owls  in  the  dusk,  Avith  noiseless  wing. 
Float  from  yon  hanger  to  their  haunted  tree. 

And  hoot  full  softly.     Listening,  I  regain 

A  flashing  thought  of  thee  with  their  remembered 
strain. 

I  will  not  pine — it  is  the  careless  brook. 

These  ainber  sunbeams  slanting  down  ttie  vale  ; 
It  is  the  long  tree-shadows,  with  their  look 


172  THE  FOUR  BRIDGES. 


Of  natural  peace,  that  make  my  heart  to  fail : 
The  peace  of  nature — No,  I  -will  not  pine — 
But  O  the  contrast  'twixt  her  face  and  mine! 

And  still  I  changed — I  was  a  boy  no  more  ; 

My  heart  was  large  enough  to  hold  my  kind, 
And  all  the  world.     As  hath  been  oft  before 

With  youth,  I  sought,  but  I  could  never  find 
Work  hard  enough  to  (juietmy  self-strife, 
And  use  the  strength  of  action-craving  life. 

She,  too,  was  changed  :  her  bountiful  sweet  eyes 
Looked  out  full  lovingly  on  all  the  world. 

O  tender  as  the  deeps  in  yonder  skies 

Their  beaming !  but  her  rosebud  lips  were  curled 

With  the  soft  dimple  of  a  musing  smile. 

Which  kept  my  gaze,  but  held  me  mute  the  while. 

A  cast  of  bees,  a  slowly  moving  wain, 

The  scent  of  bean-flowers  wafted  up  a  dell, 

Blue  pigeons  wheeling  over  fields  of  grain. 
Or  bleat  of  folded  lamb,  Avould  please  her  well, 

Or  cooing  of  the  early  coted  dove  ; — 

She,  sauntering,  mused  of  these  ;  I,  following,  mused 
of  love. 

With  her  tAvo  lips,  that  one  the  other  pressed 
So  poutingly  with  such  a  tranquil  air, 

Witli  her  two  eyes,  that  on  my  own  would  rest 
So  dream-like,  she  denied  my  silent  prayer. 

Fronted  unuttered  words,  and  said  them  nay. 

And  smiled  down  love  till  it  had  nought  to  say. 

The  words  that  through  mine  eyes  would  clearly  shine 
Hovered  and  hovered  on  my  lips  in  vain  ; 

If  after  pause  I  said  but  "  Eglantine," 
She  raised  to  me  her  quiet  eyelids  twain, 

And  looked  m(>  tliis  r<^'ply — look  calm,  yet  bland— 

"  I  shall  not  know,  1  will  not  understand. " 


THE  FOUR  BRIDGES.  173 


Yet  she  did  know  ray  stor^- — knew  my  life 

Was    wrought  to  hers  Avith  bindings  many  and 
strong  ; 

That  1,  like  Israel,  served  for  a  wife, 

And  for  the  love  I  bear  her  thought  not  long, 

But  only  a  few  daj-s,  full  quickly  told, 

My  seven  years'  service  strict  as  his  of  old. 

» 

I  must  be  brief :  the  twilight  shadows  grow, 
And  steal  the  rose-bloom  genial  summer  sheds, 

And  scented  wafts  of  wind  that  come  and  go 
Have  lifted  dew  from  honeyed  clover-heads  ; 

The  seven  stars  shine  out  above  the  mill. 

The  dark  delightsome  woods  lie  veiled  and  still. 

Hush  !  hush  !  the  nightingale  begins  to  sing, 
And  stops,  as  ill  contented  with  her  note  ; 

Then  breaks  from  out  the  bush  Avith  hurried  wing, 
Restless  and  passionate.     She  tunes  her  throat, 

Laments  a  while  in  wavering  trills,  and  then 

Floods  with  a  stream  of  sweetness  all  the  glen. 

The  seven  stars  upon  the  nearest  pool 

Lie  trembling  down  betwixt  the  lily  leaves, 

And  move  like  glowworms  ;  wafting  breezes  cool 
Come  down  along  the  water,  and  it  heaves 

And  bubbles  in  the  sedge  ;  while  deep  and  wide 

The  dim  night  settles  on  the  country  side. 

I  know  this  scene  by  heart.     O  !  once  before 

I  saw  the  seven  stars  float  to  and  fro, 
And  stayed  my  hurried  footsteps  by  the  shore 

To  mark  the  starry  picture  spread  below  : 
Its  silence  made  the  tumult  in  my  breast 
More  audible  ;  its  peace  revealed  my  own  unrest. 

I  paused,  then  hurried  on  ;  my  heart  beat  quick  ; 

I  crossed  the  bridges,  reached  the  steep  ascent. 
And  climbed  through  matted  fern  and  hazels  tkiok ; 


J'JC^  THE  FOUR  BRIDGES. 


Then  darkling  throufjh  the  close  green  maples  went, 
And  saw — there  felt  love's  keenest  pangs  begin — 
An  oriel  window  lighted  from  within  : 

I  saw — and  felt  that  they  were  scarcely  cares 
Which  I  had  known  before.     I  drew  more  near, 

And  O  !  methought  how  sore  it  frets  and  wears 
The  soul  to  part  with  that  it  holds  so  dear : 

'Tis  hard  two  woven  tendrils  to  untwine, 

And  I  was  come  to  part  with  Eglantine. 

For  life  was  bitter  thron.gh  those  words  repressed, 
And  youth  was  burdened  with  unspoken  vows  ; 

Love  unrequited  brooded  in  my  breast, 

And  shrank,  at  glance,  from  the  beloved  brows  : 

And   three   long  months,  heart-sick,  my   foot  with- 
drawn 

I  had  not  sought  her  side  by  rivulet,  copse,  or  lawn — 

Not  sought  her  side,  yet  bus\'  thought  no  less 
Still  follov/ed  in  her  wake,  though  far  behind  ; 

And  I,  being  parted  from  her  loveliness. 
Looked  at  the  picture  of  her  in  my  mind  : 

I  lived  alone,  I  walked  with  soul  opprest, 

And  ever  sighed  for  her,  and  sighed  for  rest. 

Then  I  had  risen  to  struggle  with  my  heart, 

And  said  :  "  O  heart !  the  world  is  fresh  and  fair, 

And  1  am  young ;  but  this  thy  restless  smart 
Changes  to  bitterness  the  morning  air  : 

1  will,  Imust,  these  weary  fetters  break — 

1  will  be  free,  if  onlv  for  her  sake. 

"  O  let  me  trouble  her  no  more  with  sighs ! 

Heart-healing  comes  by  distauce  and  with  times 
Then  let  me  wander,  and  enrich  mine  eyes 

With  the  green  forests  of  a  softer  clime. 
Or  list  by  night  at  sea  the  wind's  low  stavo 
And  long  monotonous  rockings  of  tiae  wavo. 


THE  FOUR  BRIDGES.  175 


"Through  open  sohtlides",  unbounded  meads. 

Where,  wadhag  on  breast-hi-^'h  in  yellow  bloora, 
Untamed  of  man,  the  shy  white  llama  feeds — 

There  would  I  journey  and  forget  my  doom  \ 
O  far,  O  far  as  sunrise  I  would  see 
The  level  praij-ie  stretch  away  from  me  ! 

"  Or  I  would  sail  upon  the  tropic  seas, 

Where  fathom  long  the  blood-red  dulses  grew, 

Droop  from  the  rock  and  waver  in  the  breeze, 
Lasting  the  tide  to  foam  ;  while  calm  below 

The  muddy  mandrakes  throng  these  waters  warm, 

And  purple,  gold,  and  green,   the   living   blossoms 
swarm." 

So  of  my  father  I  did  win  consent, 

With  importunities  repeated  long. 
To  make  that  duty  which  had  been  my  bent, 

To  dig  with  strangei-s  alien  tombs  among, 
And  bound  to  them  though  desert  leagues  to  pace. 
Or  track  up  rivers  to  their  starting-place. 

For  this  I  had  done  battle  and  had  won. 
But  not  alone  to  tread  Arabian  sands, 

Measure  the  shadows  of  a  southern  sun, 
Or  dig  out  gods  in  the  old  Egyptian  lands  ; 

But  for  the  dream  wherewith  I  thought  to  cope — . 

The  grief  of  love  unmated  with  love's  hope. 

And  now  I  would  set  reason  in  array, 

INlethought,  and  light  for  fi'eedom  manfully. 

Till  by  long  absence  there  would  come  a  day 
When  this  my  love  would  not  be  pain  to  me  ; 

But  if  I  knew  my  rosel)ud  fair  and  blost 

I  should  not  jjiiie  to  wear  it  on  my  breast. 

The  days  fled  on  ;  another  week  should  fiing 
A  foreign  shadow  ou  my  lengthening  way  ; 


176  THE  FOUR  BRIDGES. 

Another  week,  yet  nearness  did  not  briug 

A  braver  heart  that  hard  farewell  to  say. 
I  let  the  last  day  wane,  the  dust  begin, 
Ere  I  had  sought  that  window  lighted  from  withiCo 

Sinking  and  sinking,  O  my  heart !  my  heart ! 

Will  absence  heal  thee  whom  its  shade  doth  rend  ? 
I  reached  the  little  gate,  and  soft  within 

The  oriel  fell  her  shadow.     She  did  lend 
Her  loveliness  to  me,  and  let  me  share 
The  listless  sweetness  of  those  features  fair. 

Among  thick  laurels  in  the  gathering  gloom, 
Heavy  for  this  our  parting,  I  did  stand  ; 

Beside  her  mother  in  the  lighted  room. 
She  sitting  leaned  her  cheek  upon  her  hand  ; 

And  as  she  read,  her  sweet  voice,  floating  through 

The  open  casement,  seemed  to  mourn  me  an  adieu. 

Youth !  youth  I  how  buoyant  are   thy   hopes !    they 
turn. 
Like  marigolds,  toward  the  sunnj^  side. 
My  hopes  were  buried  in  a  funeral  urn. 
And  they  sprang  up  like  plants  and  spread  th  )m 
Avide ; 
Though  I  had  schooled  and  reasoned  them  awaj'. 
They  gathered  smiling  near  and  prayed  a  holiday. 

Ah,  sweetest  voice !  how  pensive  were  its  tones. 
And  how  regretful  its  unconscious  pause  I 

"Is  it  for  me  her  heart  this  sadness  owns. 
And  is  our  parting  of  to-night  the  cause? 

Ah,  would  it  might  be  so  I  "  I  thought,  and  stood 

Listening  entranced  among  the  underwood. 

I  thought  it  would  be  something  worth  the  pam 

)f  parting,  to  look  once  in  those  deep  eyes. 
And  take  from  them  an  answering  look  again. 


THE  FOUR  BRIDGES.  177 


"  "When  eastern  palms,"  I  thought,  "  about  me  rise. 
If  I  might  carve  our  names  upon  the  rind, 
Betrothed,  I  would  not  mourn,  though  leaving  thee 
behind." 

I  can  be  patient,  faithful,  and  most  fond 
To  unacknowledged  love  ;  I  can  be  true 

To  this  sweet  thraldom,  this  unequal  bond, 
This  yoke  of  mine  that  reaches  not  to  you  : 

O,  how  much  more  could  costly  parting  buy — 

If  not  a  pledge,  one  kiss,  or,  failing  that,  a  sigh! 

1  listened,  and  she  ceased  to  read ;  she  turned 
Her  face  toward  the  laurels  where  I  stood  : 

Her  mother  spoke — O  wonder  !  hardly  learned  ; 
She  said,  "  There  is  a  rustling  in  the  wood  5 

Ah,  child  !  if  one  draw  near  to  bid  farewell, 

Let  not  thine  eyes  an  unsought  secret  tell. 

"My  daughter,  there  is  nothing  held  so  dear 

As  love,  if  only  it  be  hard  to  win. 
The  roses  that  in  yonder  hedge  appear 

Outdo  our  garden-buds  which  bloom  within  ; 
But  since  the  hand  may  pluck  them  every  day, 
Unmarked  they  bud,  bloom,  drop,  and  drift  away. 

"  My  daughter,  my  beloved,  be  not  you 
Like  those  s.ame  roses,"  O  bewildering  word  ! 

My  heart  stood  still,  a  midst  obscured  my  view  : 
It  cleared  ;  still  silence.     No  denial  stirred 

The  lips  beloved  ;  but  straight,  as  one  opprest. 

She,  kneeling,  dropped  her  face  upon  her  mother's 
breast. 

This  said,  "  My  daughter,  sorrow  comes  to  all ; 

Our  life  is  checked  with  shadows  manifold  : 
But  woman  has  this  more — she  may  not  call 

Her  sorrow  by  its  name.     Yet  lovo  not  told, 
And  only  born  of  absence  and  by  thought. 
With  thought  and  absence  may  return  to  nought." 


17S  THE  FOUR  BRIDGES. 

And  my  beloved  lifted  up  her  face, 

And  moved  her  hps  as  if  about  to  speak  ; 

She  dropped  her  lashes  with  a  p-irlish  fjrace, 
And  the  rich  damask  mantled  in  her  cheek  : 

I  stood  awaiting  till  she  should  deny 

Her  love,  or  with  sweet  laughter  put  it  by. 

But,  closer  nestling  to  her  mother's  heart, 
She,  blushing,  said  no  word  to  break  my  trance, 

For  I  was  breathless  ;  and,  with  lips  apart, 
Felt  my  breast  pant  and  all  my  pulses  dance. 

And  strove  to  move,  but  could  not  for  the  weight 

Of  unbelieving  joy,  so  sudden  and  so  great. 

Because  she  loved  me.     With  a  mighty  sigh 
Breaking  away,  I  left  her  on  her  knet-s. 

And  blest  the  laurel  bower,  the  darkened  sky, 
The  sultry  night  of  August.     Through  the  trees, 

Giddy  Avith  gladness,  to  the  porch  I  went, 

And  hardly  found  the  way  for  joyful  wonderment. 

Yet,  when  I  entered,  saw  her  mother  sit 

With  both  hands  cherishing  the  graceful  head, 

Smoothing  the  clustered  hair,  and  parting  it 
From  the  fair  brow ;  she,  rising,  only  said. 

In  the  accustomed  tone,  the  accustomed  word, 

The  careless  greeting  that  I  always  heard  ; 

And  she  resumed  her  morry,  mocking  smile. 

Though  tear-drops  on  the  glistening  lashes  hung. 
O  woman  !  thou  wert  fashioned  to  beguile  ; 

So  have  all  sages  said,  all  poets  sung. 
She  spoke  of  favoring  winds  and  waiting  ships. 
With  smiles  of  gratulation  on  her  lips  1 

And  then  she  looked  and  faltered  :  I  had  grown 

So  suddenly  in  life  and  soul  a  man  : 
She  moved  her  lips,  but  could  not  find  a  tone 


•      THE  FOUR  BRIDGES.  179 

To  set  her  mocldng  music  to  ;  began 
One  struggle  for  dominion,  raised  her  eyes, 
And  straight  withdrew  them,  bashful  through  sui^ 
prise. 

The  color  over  cheek  and  bosom  flushed  ; 

I  might  have  heard  the  beating  of  her  heart, 
But  that  mine  own  beat  louder ;  when  she  blushed. 

The  hand  within  mine  own  I  felt  to  start, 
But  would  not  change  my  pitiless  decree 
To  strive  with  her  for  might  and  mastery. 

She  looked  again,  as  one  that,  half  afraid. 
Would  fain  be  certain  of  a  doubtful  thing  ; 

Or  one  beseeching,  "  Do  not  me  upbraid  !  " 
And  then  she  trembled  like  the  fluttering 

Of  timid  little  birds,  and  silent  stood. 

No  smile  wherewith  to  mock  my  hardihood. 

She  turned,  and  to  an  open  casement  moved 
With  girlish  shyness,  mute  beneath  my  gaze, 

And  I  on  downcast  lashes  unreproved 

Could  look  as  long  as  pleased  me  ;  while,  the  rays 

Of  moonlight  round  her,  she  her  fair  head  bent, 

In  modest  silence  to  my  words  attent. 

How  fast  the  giddy  whirling  moments  flew  ! 

The  moon  had  set ;  I  heard  tjie  midnight  chime  : 
Hope  is  more  brave  than  fear,  and  joy  than  dread, 

And  I  could  wait  unmoved  the  parting  time. 
It  came  ;  for  by  a  sudden  impulse  drawn, 
She,  risen,  stepped  out  upon  the  dusky  lawn. 

A  little  waxen  taper  in  her  hand. 

Her  feet  upon  the  dry  and  dewless  gi-ass, 

She  looked  like  one  of  the  celestial  band, 
Only  that  on  her  cheeks  did  dawn  and  pass 

Most  human  blushes  ;  while,  the  soft  light  thrown 

On  vesture   pure   and  white,  she   seemed   yet   fairei 
growD. 


l8o  THE  FOUR  BRIDGES.   ■ 

Her  mother,  looking  out  toward  her,  sighed, 
Then  gave  her  hand  in  token  of  farewell, 

And  with  her  warning  eyes,  that  seemed  to  chide, 
Scarce  suffered  that  I  sought  her  child  to  tell 

The  story  of  my  life,  whose  every  line 

No  other  burden  bore  than — Eglantine. 

Black  thunder-clouds  were  rising  up  behind, 
The  waxen  taper  burned  full  steadily  ; 

It  seemed  as  if  dark  midnight  had  a  mind 
To  hear  what  lovers  say,  and  her  decree 

Had  passed  for  silence,  while  she,  dropped  to  ground 

With  raiment  floating  wide,  drank  in  the  sound. 

0  happiness  1  thou  dost  not  leave  a  trace 
So  well  defined  as  sorrow.     Amber  light. 

Shed  like  a  glory,  on  her  angel  face, 

I  can  remember  fully,  and  the  sight 
Of  her  fair  forehead  and  her  shining  eyes. 
And  lips  that  smiled  in  sweet  and  girlish  wise. 

1  can  remember  how  the  taper  played 

Over  lier  small  hands  and  her  vesture  white  ; 
How  it  struck  up  into  the  trees,  and  laid 

Upon  their  under  leaves  unwonted  light ; 
And  when  she  held  it  low,  how  far  it  spread 
O'er  velvet  pansies  slumbering  on  their  bed. 

I  can  remember  that  we  spoke  full  low. 
That  neither  doubted  of  the  other's  truth  ; 

And  that  with  footsteps  slower  and  more  slow, 
Hands  folded  close  for  love,  eyes  wet  for  ruth  : 

Beneath  the  trees,  by  that  clear  taper's  llame, 

We  wandered  till  the  gate  of  parting  came. 

But  I  forget  the  parting  words  she  said. 

So  much  they  thrilled  the  all-attentive  soul  ; 
For  one  short  moment  human  heart  and  head 


THE  FOUR  BRIDGES.  s8l 


May  bear  such  bliss — its  present  is  the  whole : 
I  had  that  present,  till  in  whispers  fell 
With  parting  gesture  her  subdued  farewell. 

"  Farewell  1  "  she  said,  in  act  to  turn  away, 
But  stood  a  moment  still  to  dry  her  tears, 

And  suffered  my  enfolding  arm  to  stay 
The  time  of  her  departure.     O  ye  years 

That  intervene  betwixt  that  day  and  this  1 

You  all  received  your  hue  from  that  keen  pain  and 
bliss. 

O  mingled  pain  and  bliss  1     O  pain  to  break 
At  once  from  happiness  so  lately  found, 

And  four  long  3^ears  to  feel  for  her  sweet  sake 
The  iricompleteness  of  all  sight  and  sound  \ 

But  bliss  to  cross  once  more  the  foaming  brine — 

0  bliss  to  come  again  and  make  her  mine. 

1  cannot — O,  I  cannot  more  recall  I 

But  1  will  soothe  my  troubled  thoughts  to  rest 
With  musing  over  journeyings  wide,  and  all 

Observance  of  this  active-humored  west. 
And  swarming  cities  steeped  in  eastern  day, 
With  swarthy  tribes  in  gold  and  striped  array. 

1  turn  from  these,  and  straight  there  will  succeed 
(Shifting  and  changing  at  the  restless  will). 

Imbedded  in  some  deep  Circassian  mead, 

White  wagon-tilts,  and  flocks  that  eat  their  till 

Unseen  above,  while  comely  shepherds  pass> 

And  scarcely  show  their  heads  above  the  grass. 

— The  red  Sahara  in  an  angry  glow, 

With  amber  fogs,  across  its  hollows  trailetl 

Long  strings  of  camels,  gloomy-eyed  and  slow. 
And  women  on  their  necks,  from  guzt^rs  veiled, 

And  sun-swart  guides  who  toil  across  tlie  sand 

To  groves  of  date-trees  on  the  watered  land. 


l82  THE  FOUR  BRIDGES. 


Again — the  brown  sails  of  an  Arab  boat, 

Flapping  by  night  upon  a  glassy  sea, 
Whereon  the  moon  and  planets  seem  to  float, 

More  bright  of  hue  than  they  were  wont  to  be, 
While    shooting-stars     rain   down     with     crackhng 

sound, 
And,  thick  as  swarming  locusts,  drop  to  ground. 

Or  far  into  the  heat  among  the  sands 

The  gembock  nations,  snuffing  up  the  wind. 

Drawn  by  the  scent  of  water — and  the  bands 
Of  tawny-bearded  lions  pacing,  blind 

With  the  sun-dazzle  in  their  midst,  opprest 

With  prey,  and  spiritless  for  lack  of  rest  1 

What  more ?     Old  Lebanon,  the  f ^osty-broived. 

Setting  his  feet  among  oil-olive  trees, 
Ileaving  iiis  bare  brown  shoulder  through  a  cloud  ; 

And  after,  grassy  Carmel,  purple  seas, 
Flattering  his  dreams  and  echoing  in  his  roc 
Soft  as  the  bleating  of  his  thousand  flocks. 

Enough  :  how  vain  this  thinking  to  beguile, 
With  recollected  scenes,  an  aching  breast  I 

Did  not  I,  journeying,  muse  on  her  the  while  ? 
Ah,  yes  !  for  every  landscape  comes  impressed — 

Ay,  written  on,  as  by  an  iron  pen — 

With  the  same  thought  1  nursed  about  her  then. 

Therefore  let  memory  turn  again  to  home; 

Feel,  as  of  old,  the  joy  of  drawing  near  ; 
Watch  the  green  breaiiers  and  the  wind-tossed  foam. 

And  see  the  land-fog  break,  dissolve,  and  clear  ; 
Then  think  a  skylark's  voice  far  sweeter  sound 
Than  ever  thrilled  but  over  English  ground  ; 

And  walk,  glad,  even  to  tears,  among  the  wheat. 
Not  doubting  this  to  be  the  first  of  lauds  ; 


THE  FOUR  BRIDGES.  1S3 

And,  while  in  foreign  words  this  murmuring,  meet 
Some  little  village  school-girls  (with  their  hands 
Full  of  forget-me-nots),  who,  greeting  me, 
1  count  their  English  talk  delightsome  melody ; 

And  seat  me  on  a  bank,  and  draw  them  near, 
That  I  may  feast  myself  with  hearing  it. 

Till  shortly  they  forget  their  bashful  fear. 

Push  back  their  flaxen  curls,  and  round  me  sit — 

Tell  me  their  names,  their  daily  tasks,  and  show 

Where  wild  wood  strawberries  in  the  copses  gTOW. 

So  i^assed  the  day  in  this  delightsome  land  : 

My  hea.rt  was  thankful  for  the  English  tongue — 

For  English  sky  with  feathery  cloudlets  spanned — 
For  EngliiJh  hedge  with  glistening  dewdrops  hung. 

I  journeyed,  and  at  glowing  eventide 

Stopped  at  a  rustic  inn  by  the  Avayside. 

That  night  I  slumbered  sweetly,  being  right  glad 
To  miss  the  flapping  of  the  shrouds  ;  but  lo  ! 

A  qui^t  dream  of  beings  twain  I  had, 

Behind  the  curtain  talking  soft  and  low: 

Methought  I  did  not  heed  their  utterance  fine, 

Till  one  of  them  said  softly,  "  Eglantine." 

I  started  up  awake,  'twas  silence  all : 

My  own  fond  heart  had  shaped  that  utterance  clear ; 
And  "  Ah  I  "  methought,  "  how  sweetly  did  it  fall. 

Though  but  in  dream,  upon  the  listening  ear  ! 
Uow  sweet  from  other  lips  the  name  well  known — 
That  name,  so  many  a  year  heard  only  from  mine 
own  1 " 

I  thought  awhile,  then  slumber  came  to  me, 
And  tangled  all  my  fancy  in  her  maze, 

And  I  was  drifting  on  a  raft  at  sea, 

The  near  all  ocean,  and  tlie  far  all  haze  ; 


l84  THE  FOUR  BRIDGES. 

Through  the  white  polished  water  sharks  did  glide, 
And  up  in  heaven  I  saw  no  stars  to  guide. 

"  Have  mercy,  God  !  "  but  lo  I  my  raft  uprose ; 

Drift,  drift,  I  heard  the  water  splash  from  it; 
My  raft  had  wings,  and  as  the  petrel  goes, 

It  skimmed  the  sea,  then  brooding  seemed  to  sit 
The  milk-white  mirror,  till,  with  sudden  spring, 
Ifc  flew  straight  upward  like  a  living  thing. 

But  strange  ! — I  went  not  also  in  that  flight, 
For  I  was  entering  at  a  cavern's  mouth  ; 

Trees  grew  within,  and  screaming  birds  of  night 
Sat  on  them,  hiding  from  the  torrid  south. 

On,  on  I  went,  while  gleaming  in  the  dark 

Those  trees  with  blanched  leaves  stood  pale  and  stark. 

The  trees  had  flower-buds,  nourished  in  deep  night, 

And  suddenly,  as  I  went  farther  in, 
They  opened,  and  they  shot  out  lambent  light; 

Then  all  at  once  arose  a  railing  din 
That  frighted  me  :  "It  is  the  ghosts,"  I  said, 
"  And  they  are  railing  for  their  darkness  fled. 

"  I  hope  they  will  not  look  me  in  the  face ; 

It  frighteth  me  to  hear  their  laughter  loud  ; 
I  saw  them  troop  before  with  jaunty  pace, 

And  one   would   shake   off    dust  that    soiled   h%' 
shroud  : 
But  now,  O  joy  unhoped  !  to  calm  my  dread, 
Some  moonlight  filtered  through  a  cleft  o'erhead. 

1  climbed  the  lofty  trees — the  blanchi'^d  trees— 
The  cleft  was  wide  enough  to  let  me  through  ; 

I  clambered  out  and  felt  the  balmy  breeze. 

And  stepped  on  churchyard  grasses  wet  with  deWs 

0  happy  chance  !  O  fortune  to  admire  : 

1  stood  beside  my  own  loved  village  spire. 


THE  FOUR  BRIDGES.  185 


And  as  I  gazed  upon  the  yew-tree's  trunli, 
Lo,  far-oflf  music — music  in  the  night ! 

So  sweet  and  tender  as  it  swelled  and  sunk  ; 
It  charmed  me  till  I  Avept  with  keen  delight, 

And  in  my  dream,  methought  as  it  drew  near 

The  very  clouds  in  heaven  stooped  low  to  hear. 

Beat  high,  beat  low,  wild  heart  so  deeply  stirred, 
For  high  as  heaven  runs  up  the  piercing  strain  \ 

The  restless  music  lluttering  like  a  bird 

Bemoaned  herself,  and  dropped  to  earth  again, 

Heaping  up  sweetness  till  I  was  afraid 

That  I  should  die  of  grief  when  it  did  fade. 

And  it  DID  fade  ;  but  while  with  eager  ear 
I  drank  its  last  long  echo  dying  away, 

I  was  aware  of  footsteps  that  drew  near, 

And  round  the  ivied  chancel  seemed  to  strays 

O,  soft  above  the  hallowed  place  they  trod — 

Soft  as  the  fall  of  foot  that  is  not  shod  1 

I  turned — 'twas  even  so — yes.  Eglantine  I 
For  at  the  first  I  had  divined  the  same  ; 

I  saw  the  moon  on  her  shut  eyelids  shine, 

And  said,  "  She  is  asleep  :  "  still  on  she  came  ; 

Then,  on  her  dimpled  feet,  I  saw  it  gleam. 

And  thought,  "  I  know  that  this  is  but  a  dream." 

My  darling  !  O  my  darling  !  not  the  less 
My  dream  went  on  because  I  knew  it  such  : 

She  came  towards  me  in  her  loveliness — 

A  thing  too  pure,  methouglit,  for  mortal  touch  ; 

The  rippling  gold  did  on  her  bosom  meet, 

The  long  white  robe  descended  to  her  feet. 

The  fririgtd  lids  dropped  low,  as  sleep-oppressed  ; 

Her  dreamy  smile  was  very  fair  to  see. 
And  her  two  hands  were  folded  to  her  breast. 


^86  THE  FOUR  BRIDGES 

With  somewhat  heid  between  them  heedfully. 
O  fast  asleep  !  and  yet  methon^ht  she  knew 
And  felt  my  nearness  those  shut  eyelids  through. 

She  sighed  :  my  tears  ran  down  for  tenderness — 
'•  And  hav^e  I  drawn  thee  to  me  in  my  sleep  ? 

Is  it  for  me  thou  wanderest  shelterless, 
Wetting  thy  steps  in  dewy  grasses  deep  ? 

0  if  this  be  !  "  I  said — "  yet  speak  to  me ; 

1  blame  my  very  dream  for  cruelty," 

Then  from  her  stainless  bosom  she  did  take 
Two  beauteous  lily  flowers  that  lay  therein. 

And  with  slow-movhig  lips  a  gesture  make, 
As  one  that  some  forgotten  Avords  doth  win  : 

"They  floated  on  the  pool,"  methought  she  said. 

And  water  trickled  from  each  lily's  head. 

It  dropped  upon  her  feet — I  saw  it  gleam 

Along  the  ripples  of  her  yellow  hair. 
And  stood  apart,  for  only  in  a  dream 

She   would   have   come,  methought,   to    meet  me 
there. 
She  spoke  again — "  Ah  fair  !  ah  fresh  they  shine  I 
And  there  are  many  left,  and  these  are  mine." 

I  answered  her  with  flattering  accents  meet — 
'*  Love,  they  are  whitest  lilies  e'er  were  blown." 

"  And   sayest  thou   so  ? "    she  sighed    in    murmurs 
sweet  : 
"  I  have  naught  else  to  give  thee  now,  mine  own  X 

For  it  is  night.     Then  take  them,  love !  "  said  she  : 

"  They  have  been  costly  flowers  to  thee — and  me." 

While  thus  she  said  I  took  them  from  her  hand, 
And.  overcome  with  love  and  nearness,  woke  ; 

And  overcome  with  ruth  that  she  should  stand 
Barefooted  on  the  grass  \  that,  when  she  spoke, 


TtTE  FOUR  BRIDGES.  •  iS? 

Her  mystic  words  should  take  so  sweet  a  tone, 
And  of  all  names  her  lips  should  choose  "  My  own." 

I  rose,  _  journeyed,  neared  my  home,  and  soon 
Beheld  the  spire  peer  out  above  the  hill  : 

It  was  a  sunny  harvest  afternoon. 

When  by  the  churchyard  wicket,  standing  still, 

I  cast  my  eatjer  eyes  abroad  to  know 

if  change  had  touched  the  scenes  of  long  ago. 

I  looked  across  the  hollow  ;  sunbeams  shone 
Upon  the  old  house  with  the  gable-ends  : 

"  Save  that  the  laurel-trees  are  t-aller  grown, 
No  change,"  methought,  "  to  its  gray  wall  extende. 

What  clear  bright  beams  on  yondar  hittice  shine  1 

There  did  1  sometime  talk  with  Eglantine." 


■■o' 


There  standing  with  my  very  goal  in  sight, 
Over  my  haste  did  sudden  quiet  steal  ; 

I  thought  to  dally  with  my  own  delight, 
Nor  rush  on  headlong  to  my  garnered  weal, 

But  taste  the  sweetness  of  a  short  delay, 

And  for  a  little  moment  hold  the  bliss  at  bay. 

The  church  was  open  ;  it  perchance  might  be 
That  there  to  offer  thanks  I  might  e.ssay. 

Or  rather,  as  I  think,  that  I  might  see 

The  place  where  Eglantine  was  wont  to  praj'. 

But  so  it  was  ;  I  crossed  that  portal  wide. 

And  felt  my  riot  joy  to  calm  subside. 

The  (ow  depending  curtains,  gently  swayed, 
Cast  over  arch  and  roof  a  crimson  glow  ; 

But,  ne'ertheless,  all  silence  and  all  shade 
It  seemed,  save  only  for  the  rippling  flow 

Of  their  long  foldings,  whf^ii  the  suiist't  HJr 

Sighed  through  the  casements  of  the  house  of  prayer. 


l8S  s  MOTHER  SHOWING  THE 


I  found  her  place,  the  ancient  oaken  stall, 
Where  in  her  childhood  I  had  seen  her  sit. 

Most  saint-like  and  most  tranquil  there  of  all. 
Folding  her  hands,  as  if  a  dreaming  fit — 

A  heavenly  vision  had  before  her  strayed 

Of  the  Eternal  Child  in  lowly  manger  laid. 

i  saw  her  prayer-book  laid  upon  the  seat, 
And  took  it  in  my  hand,  and  felt  more  near 

In  fancy  to  her,  finding  it  most  sweet 

To  think  how  very  oft,  low  kneeling  here. 

In  her  devout  thoughts  she  had  let  me  share, 

And  set  my  graceless  name  in  her  pure  prayer. 

My  eyes  were  dazzled  with  delightful  tears — 
In  sooth  they  were  the  last  I  ever  shed  ; 

For  with  them  fell  the  cherished  dreams  of  years. 
I  looked;  and  on  the  wall  above  my  head, 

Over  her  seat,  there  was  a  tablet  placed, 

With  one  word  only  on  the  marble  traced. — 

Ah,  Avell !  I  would  not  overstate  that  woe. 
For  I  have  had  some  blessings,  little  care.; 

But  since  the  falling  of  that  heavy  blow, 
God's  earth  has  never  seemed  to  me  so  fair  ; 

Nor  any  of  ilis  creatures  so  divine, 

ISTor  sleep  so  sweet : — the  word  v/as — EglawtinD). 


MOTHER  SHOWING  THE  PORTRAIT  OP 
HER  GUILD. 

(f.  m.  l.) 

Living  Child  or  pictured  cherub 
Ne'er  o'ermatched  its  baby  grace  ; 

And  the  mother,  moving  nearer, 
Looked  it  calmly  iu  the  face  ; 


PORTRAIT  OF  HER  CHILD.  iSq 


Then  with  slight  and  quiet  gesture, 
And.  with  lips  that  scarcely  smiled, 

Said,  "  A  Portrait  of  my  daughter 
When  she  was  a  child." 

Easy  thought  was  hers  to  fathom, 

Nothing  hard  her  glance  to  read, 
For  it  seemed  to  say,  "  No  praises 

For  this  little  child  I  need  : 
If  you  see,  I  see  far  better, 

And  I  will  not  feign  to  care 
For  a  stranger's  prompt  assurance 

That  the  face  is  fair." 

Softly  clasped  and  half  extended. 

She  her  dimpled  hands  doth  lay: 
So  they  doubtless  placed  them,  saying, 

"  Little  one,  you  must  not  play." 
And  while  yet  his  work  was  growing. 

This  the  painter's  hand  hath  shown, 
That  the  little  heart  was  making 

Pictures  of  its  own. 

Is  it  warm  in  that  green  valley, 

Vaie  of  childhood,  where  you  dwell  ? 
Is  it  calm  in  that  green  valley, 

Round  whose  bourns  such  great  hills  ,  welli 
Are  there  giants  in  the  valley — 

Giants  leaving  footprints  yet? 
Are  their  angeis  in  the  valley  ? 

Tell  me — I  forget. 

Answer,  answer,  for  the  lilies. 

Little  one,  o'ertop  you  much. 
And  the  mealy  gold  within  them 

You  can  scarcely  reach  to  touch  ; 
O  how  far  their  aspect  dillers, 

Looking  up  and  looldng  down  t 


igo  A  MOTHER  SHOW7N-G  THE 

Tou  look  up  in  that  green  valley — • 
Valley  of  renown. 

Are  there  voices  in  the  valley, 

Lying  near  the  heavenly  gate  ? 
When  it  opens,  do  the  harp-strings, 

Touched  within,  reverberate  ? 
When,  like  shooting-stars,  the  angete 

To  your  couch  at  nightfall  go, 
Are  their  swift  wings  heard  to  rustle  ? 

Tell  me  1  for  you  know. 

Yes,  you  know  ;    and  you  are  silent, 

Jfot  a  word  shall  asking  win  ; 
Little  mouth  more  sweet  than  rosebudj 

Fast  it  locks  the  secret  in. 
Not  a  glimpse  upon  your  present 

You  unfold  to  glad  my  view  ; 
Ah,  what  secrets  of  your  future 

I  could  tell  to  you  I 

Sunny  present  I  thus  I  read  it. 

By  remembrance  of  my  past : — 
Its  to-day  and  its  to-morrow 

Are  as  lifetimes  vague  and  vast ; 
And  each  face  in  that  green  valley 

Takes  for  you  an  aspect  mild. 
And  each  voice  grows  soft  in  sayin^^, 

♦'Kiss  me,  little  child  I  " 

As  a  boon  the  kiss  is  granted  : 

Baby  mouth,  your  touch  is  sweet, 
Takes  the  love  without  the  trouble 

From  those  lips  that  with  it  meet ; 
Gives  the  love,  O  pure  1  O  tender  1 

Of  the  valley  where  it  grows. 
But  the  baby  heart  receiveth 

More  than  it  bestows. 


PORTRAIT  OF  HER  CHILD.  19 1 


Comes  the  future  to  the  present — 

"  Ah  !  "  she  saith,  "  too  bh'the  of  mocd  ; 
"Why  that  smile  which  seems  to  whisper — 

'  I  am  happy,  God  is  good  ?  ' 
God  is  good  :  that  truth  eternal 

Sown  for  you  in  happier  j-ears, 
I  must  tend  it  in  my  shadow, 

Water  it  with  tears. 

"  Ah,  sweet  present !  I  must  lead  thee 

By  a  daylight  more  subd'xed  ; 
There  must  teach  thee  low  to  whisjjer — 

'  I  am  mournful,  God  is  good  I '  " 
Peace,  thou  future  !  clouds  are  coming, 

Stooping  from  the  mountain  crest, 
But  that  sunshine  floods  the  valley  : 

Let  her — let  her  rest. 

Comes  the  future  to  the  present — 

"  Child,"  she  saith,  "  and  wilt  thou  rest  ? 
How  long,  child,  before  t-:y  footsteps 

Fret  to  reach  yon  cloudy  crest  ? 
Ah,  the  valley  ! — Jtugels  guard  it, 

But  the  heights  are  brave  to  see ; 
Looking  down  were  long  contentment : 

Come  up,  child,  to  me." 

So  she  speaks,  but  do  not  heed  her. 

Little  maid  with  -vjondrous  eyes, 
Not  afraid,  but  clear  and  tender, 

Bhie,  and  filled  with  prophecies; 
Thou  for  whom  life's  veil  unlifted 

Hangs,  whom  warmest  valleys  fold. 
Lift  the  veil,  the  charm  dissolveth — 

Climb,  but  heights  are  cold. 

There  are  buds  that  fold  \^ithin  them. 

Closed  and  covered  from  our  sight, 
Many  a  richly-tinted  petal, 


192  .4  MOTHER  SHOWING  THE  PORTRAIT,  ETC. 

Never  looked  on  by  the  light ; 
Fain  to  see  their  shrouded  faces, 

Sun  and  dew  are  long  at  strife. 
Till  at  length  the  sweet  buds  open — 

Such  a  bud  is  life. 

When  the  rose  of  thine  own  being 

Shall  reveal  its  central  fold, 
Thou  shalt  look  within  and  marvel. 

Fearing  what  thine  eyes  behold; 
What  it  shows  and  what  it  teaches 

Are  not  things  wherewith  to  par(  ; 
Thorny  rose  !  that  always  costeth 

Beatings  at  the  heart. 

Look  in  fear,  for  there  is  dimnesa  ; 

Ills  unshapen  float  anigh. 
Look  in  awe  :  for  this  same  naturo 

Once  the  Godhead  deigned  to  die. 
Look  in  love,  for  He  doth  love  it, 

And  its  tale  is  best  of  lore  : 
Still  humanity  grows  dearer, 

Being  learned  the  more. 

Learn,  but  not  the  less  bethink  thee 

How  that  all  can  mingle  tears  ; 
But  his  joy  can  none  discover. 

Save  to  them  that  are  liis  peers  ; 
And  that  they  whose  lijjs  do  utter 

Language  such  as  bards  have  sun.^  — 
Lo  !  their  speech  shall  be  to  many 

As  an  unknown  tongue. 

Learn,  that  if  to  thee  the  meaning 

Of  all  other  eyes  be  shown, 
Pewer  eyes  can  ever  front  thee. 

That  are  skilled  to  read  tliiue  owu  ; 


STU/FE  AND  PEACE.  193 

And  that  if  thy  love  s  deep  current 

^[any  anotlier's  far  outflows, 
Then  thy  lieart  must  take  forever 

Less  than  it  bestows. 


STRIFE  AND  PEACE. 
Writtou  for  TuE  Poetfolio  Society,  October,  1861. 

The  yellow  poplar  leaves  came  down 

And  like  a  carpet  lay, 
No  waftinfrs  were  in  the  sunny  air 

To  flutter  them  away  ; 
And  he  stepped  on  blithe  and  debonair 

That  warm  October  day. 

•'The  boy,"  said  lie,  •"  liath  got  his  own, 

But  sore  has  been  the  fight, 
For  ere  liis  life  began  the  strife 

Tliat  ceased  but  yesternight  ; 
For  the  will,"  he  said,  "  the  kinsfolk  read, 

And  reail  it  not  aright. 

•'  His  cause  was  argued  in  the  court 

IJefore  liis  christening  day  ; 
And  counsel  was  heard,  and  judge  dciniirml. 

And  bitter  waxed  tin'  fray  ; 
I?ru(her  with  brotln^r  spake  ik>  word 

When  they  met  in  the  way. 

"  Against  each  one  did  each  contend. 

And  all  against  the  hi'ir. 
I  woulil  not  bend,  for  1  knew  the  end  — 

I  have  it  for  my  share. 
Ami  nought  repent,  though  my  first  friend 

From  lieiicefortli  I  must  spare. 


194  STRIFE  AND  PEACE. 

"  Manor  and  moor  and  farm  and  wold 
Their  greed  begrudged  him  sore, 

And  parchments  old  with  passionate  hold 
They  guarded  heretofore ; 

And  they  carped  at  signature  and  seal, 
But  they  may  carp  no  more. 

"  An  old  affront  wall  stir  the  heart 
Through  years  of  rankling  jiain  j 

And  I  feel  the  fret  that  urged  me  yet 
That  warfare  to  maintain  ; 

For  an  enemy's  loss  may  well  he  set 
Above  an  infant's  gain. 

"An  enemy's  loss  I  go  to  prove  ; 

Laugh  out,  thou  little  heir  ! 
Laugh  in  his  face  who  vowed  to  chase 

Thee  from  thy  birthright  fair  ; 
For  I  come  to  set  thee  in  thy  place  : 

Laugh  out,  and  do  not  spare." 

A  man  of  strife,  in  wrathful  mood 

He  neared  the  nurse's  door  ; 
With  poplar  leaves  the  roof  and  eaves 

"Were  thickly  scattered  o'er. 
And  yellow  as  they  a  sunbeam  lay 

Along  the  cottage  floor. 

"  Sleep  on,  thou  pretty,  pretty  lamb," 

He  hears  the  fond  nurse  say ; 
"And  if  angels  stand  at  thy  right  hand, 

As  now  belike  they  may. 
And  if  angels  meet  at  thy  bed's  feet, 

I  fear  them  not  this  day. 

*'  Come  wealth,  come  want  to  thee,  dear  heart, 

It  was  all  one  to  me, 
For  thy  pretty  tongue  far  sweeter  rung 

Than  coined  gold  and  fee  ; 


SIK/FE  AND  PEACE.  19S 

And  ever  the  while  thy  waking  smile 
It  was  right  fair  to  see. 

"  Sl<?ep,  pretty  bairn,  and  never  know 
Who  grudged  and  who  transgressed ; 

Thee  to  retain  I  was  full  fain, 
But  God,  He  knoweth  best  I 

And  His  peace  upon  thy  brow  lies  plain 
As  the  sunshine  on  thy  breast  I  "  * 

The  man  of  strife,  he  enters  in, 
Looks,  and  his  pride  doth  cease  ; 

Anger  and  sorrow  shall  be  to-morrow 
Trouble,  and  no  release  ; 

But  the  babe  whose  life  awoke  the  strife 
Hath  entered  into  peace. 


STORY     OF     DOOM, 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


(•97) 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE. 

I  SAW  in  a  vision  once,  our  mothor-sphere 

The  world,  her  fixed  foredoonitd  oval  tracing, 

RoHing  and  roIUug  on  and  resting  never, 
While  like  a  phantom  fell,  behind  her  pacing 

The  unfurled  flag  of  night,  her  shadow  drear 
Fled  as  she  fled  and  hung  to  her  forever. 

Great  Heaven  !   methought,  how  strange  a  doom  to 
share. 

Would  I  may  never  bear 

Inevitable  darkness  after  me 
(Darkness  endowed  with  drawings  strong, 

And  shadowy  hands  tliat  cling  unendingly), 

Xor  feel  that  phantom-wings  Jjohind  mo  sweep, 
As  she  feels  night  jjursuing  thniugli  the  long 

illimitable  reaches  of  "  the  vasty  deep." 


God  sav<-  yoii,  g.-utlof«'lks.     Thorn  was  a  man 
Who  lay  awuko  at  midnight  ou  his  bod, 

Wntchiiig  the  spiral  flamo  that  feeding  ran 
Among  the  logs  upon  his  hearth,  and  shed 

A  coiiifiirlablc  glow,  both  warm  ami  diiii. 

On  crimson  cnii  lin-  ili-if  >■ .nipat.!^oil  biiii. 

Right  sfafcly  \\;i-  in-  .•niiinl"  r,  soft  anil  wbito 

Tlio  pillow,  and  iiis  quilt  was  oidcnlown. 
What  matlorod  it  to  him  tinough  all  that  night 

(•99) 


200  THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE. 

The  desolate  driving  cloud  might  lower  and  frown, 
And  winds  were  up  the  eddying  sleet  to  chase, 
That  drave  and  drave  and  found  no  settling-place  ? 

What  mattered  it  that  leafless  trees  might  rock. 
Or  snow  might  drift  athwart  his  window-pane  ? 

He  bare  a  charmed  life  against  their  shock, 
Secure  from  cold,  hunger,  and  weather  stain  ; 

Fixed  in  his  right,  and  born  to  good  estate, 

From  common  ills  set  by  and  separate. 

From  work  and  want  and  fear  of  want  apart, 
This  man  (men  called  him  Justice  Wilvermore) — 

This  man  had  comforted  his  cheerful  heart 
With  all  that  it  desired  from  every  shore. 

He  had  a  right, — the  riglit  of  gold  is  strong, — 

He  stood  upon  his  right  his  whole  life  long. 

Custom  makes  all  things  easy,  and  content 
Is  careless,  therefore  on  the  storm  and  cold, 

As  he  lay  waking,  never  a  thought  he  spent, 
Albeit  across  the  vale  beneath  the  Avoid, 

Along  a  reedy  mere  that  frozen  lay, 

A  range  of  sordid  hovels  stretched  away. 

What  cause  had  he  to  think  on  them,  forsooth  ? 

What  cause  that  night  beyond  another  night  ? 
He  was  familiar  even  from  his  youth 

With  their  long  ruin  and  their  evil  plight. 
The  wintry  wind  would  search  them  like  a  scout, 
The  water  froze  within  as  freely  as  without. 

He  think  upon  them  ?     No!     They  were  forlorn. 
So  wore  the  cowering  inmates  Avhom  they  held  ; 

A  thriftless  tribe,  to  shifts  and  leanness  born. 
Ever  complaining :  infancy  or  eld 

Alike.     But  there  was  rent,  or  long  ago 

Tliose  cottage  roofs  had  met  with  overthrow. 


t 


V 


THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE.         201 

For  this  they  stood  ;  and  what  his  thoughts  might  be 
This  winter  night,  I  know  not ;  but  I  know 

That,  while  tlie  cropping  flame  fed  silently 
And  east  upon  his  bed  a  crimson  glow, 

The  Justice  slept,  and  shortly  in  his  sleep 

He  fell  to  dreaming,  and  his  dream  was  deep. 

He  dreamed  that  over  him  a  shadow  came  ; 

And  when  he  looked  to  find  the  cause,  behold 
Some  person  knelt  between  him  and  the  flame: — 

A  cowering  ligure  of  one  frail  and  old, — 
A  woman  ;  and  she  prayed  as  he  descried, 
And  spread  her  feeble  hands,  and  shook  and  sighed. 

"Good  Heaven  I""  the  Justice  cried,  and  being  ilis- 
traught 

He  called  not  to  her,  but  he  looked  again  : 
8he  wore  a  tattered  cloak,  luit  she  had  naught 

Ujion  her  head  ;  and  she  did  quake  amain, 
And  spread  her  wasted  hands  and  poor  attire 
To  gather  in  the  brightness  of  his  fire. 

"  I  know  you,  woman  !  "  tluMi  the  .Justice  cried  ; 

"  I  know  that  woman  well,"  he  cried  aloud  ; 
"  The  sheplierd  Avi'land's  widow  :   (iod  me  guide  ! 

A  pauper  kneeling  on  my  hearth  :  "  and  bowed 
Tlie  hag,  like  one  at  home,  its  warmth  to  share  I 
'*  How  dares  she  to  intrude  ?     What  does  she  hero  ? 

"  Ho,  woman,  lio  !  " — l)ut  j'et  she  did  not  stir, 
Though  from  Ikt  lips  a  fitful  plaining  broke; 

"  I'll  ring  my  people  up  to  deal  with  her  ; 

I'll  rouse  the  lunise,"  he  cried  ;  but  wiiile  he  sjxiko 

He  turned,  and  saw,  Imt  distant  from  liis  bed, 

Another  form, — a  Darkness  with  a  liead. 

Tlien,  in  a  rage,  he  shouted,  "  Who  an*  you  ?  " 

For  little  in  the  gloom  he  mit,'lit  discern, 
'•ypeak  out  ;  speak  now  ;  or  1  will  uiake  you  rue 


The  hour !  "  but  there  was  silence,  and  a  stern, 
Dark  face  from  out  the  dusk  appeared  to  lean, 
And  then  again  drew  back,  and  was  not  seen. 

'•  God  !  "  cried  the  dreaming  man,  right  impiously, 
"  What  have  I  done,  that  these  my  sleep  affray  ?  " 

"  God  ! "  said  the  Phantom,  "  I  appeal  to  Thee, 
Appoint  Thou  me  this  man  to  be  my  prey." 

"  God  I  "  sighed  the  kneeling  Avoman,  frail  and  old, 

"  I  pray  Thee  take  me,  for  the  woi-ld  is  cold." 

Then  said  the  trembling  Justice,  in  affright, 

"Fiend,  I  adjure  thee,  speak  thine  errand  here  !  " 

And  lo  !  it  pointed  in  the  failing  light 

Toward  the  woman,  answering,  cold  and  clear, 

"  Thou  art  ordained  an  answer  to  thy  prayer; 

But  first  to  tell  her  tale  that  kneeleth  there." 

**  Her  tale  I  "  the  Justice  cried.     "  A  pauper's  tale  !  " 
And  he  took  heart  at  this  so  low  behest, 

And  let  the  stoutness  of  his  will  prevail. 

Demanding,  "  Is't  for  her  you  break  my  rest  ? 

She  went  to  jail  of  late  for  stealing  wood. 

She  will  again  for  this  night's  hardihood. 

"  I  sent  her;  and  to-morrow,  as  I  live, 
I  will  commit  her  for  this  trespass  here." 

"Thou  wilt  not!"  quoth  the  Shadow,  "thou  wilt 
give 
Her  story  words  ;  "  and  then  it  stalked  anear 

And  showed  a  lowering  face,  and,  dread  to  see, 

A  countenance  of  angered  majesty. 

Then  said  the  Justice,  all  his  thoughts  astray, 
"With  that  material  Darkness  chiding  him, 

"  If  this  must  be,  then  speak  to  her,  I  pray. 
And  bid  her  move,  for  all  the  room  is  dim 

By  reason  of  the  place  she  holds  to-night : 

She  kneels  between  me  and  the  warmth  and  light." 


THE  DliEAAJS  THAT  CAME  TRUE  203 

"  With  adjurations  deep  and  drawings  strong, 
And  with  the  power,"    it    said,  "  unto  me  given, 

I  call  upon  thee,  man,  to  tell  thy  wrong. 
Or  look  no  more  upon  the  face  of  Heaven. 

Si)eak  !    though  she  kneel  throughout  the  livelong 
night, 

And  yet  shall  kneel  between  thee  and  the  light." 

This  when  the  Justice  heard,  he  raised  his  hands, 

And  held  them  as  the  dead  in  efligy 
Hold  theirs,  when  carved  upon  a  tomb.     The  bands 

Of  fate  had  bound  him  fast :  no  remedy 
Was  left :  his  voice  unto  himself  was  strange. 
And  that  unearthly  vision  did  not  change. 

He  said,  "  That  woman  dwells  anear  my  door, 
Her  life  and  mine  began  the  selfsame  day, 

And  I  am  hale  and  hearty  :  from  my  store 
I  never  spared  her  aught :  she  takes  her  way 

Of  me  unheeded  ;  pining,  pinching  care 

Is  all  the  portion  that  she  has  to  share. 

"  She  is  a  brokon-down,  poor,  friendless  wight, 
Through  labor  and  through  sorrow  early  old  ; 

And  I  have  known  of  this  her  evil  plight, 
Her  scanty  earnings,  and  her  lodguiout  coM  ; 

A  patienti.'r  pour  suul  shall  ne'er  be  found  : 

She  labored  on  my  land  the  long  year  round. 

'•  What  wouldst  thou  have  mo  say,  thou  Fieml  ;il)- 
horrt'd  ? 

SIjow  mo  no  moro  thine  awful  visage  griui. 
If  thou  oboy'st  a  greater,  toll  thy  lonl 

That  I  have  paid  her  wages.  Cry  to  liiin  ! 
He  has  not  mwh  against  mo.  None  can  s.iy 
I  have  not  paid  her  wages  day  by  day. 

•'  Tlin  spell  I     It  draws  me.     I  must  speak  .•ii-'iiu  ; 
And  speak  against  myself;   and  speak  alii.d. 


204  THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE. 

The  woman  once  approached  me  to  complain, — 

•  My  wages  are  so  low.'     I  may  be  prond  ; 
It  is  a  fault."     "  Ay,"  quoth  the  Phantom  fell, 
"Sinner!  it  is  a  fault :  thou  sayest  Avell." 

"  She  made  her  moan,  '  My  wages  are  so  low.'  " 
"Tell  on  !  "     "  She  said,"  he  answered,  "  '  My  best 
days 

Are  ended,  and  the  summer  is  but  slow 

To  come  ;  and  my  good  strength  for  work  decays 

By  reason  that  I  live  so  hard,  and  lie 

On  winter  nights  so  bare  for  poverty.'  " 

''  And  you  replied," — began  the  lowering  shade, 
"  And  I  replied,"  the  Justice  followed  on, 

"  That  wages  like  to  mine  my  neighbor  paid  ; 
And  if  I  raised  the  Avages  of  the  one 

Straight  should  the  others  murmur  ;  furthermore, 

The  winter  was  as  Avinters  gone  before. 

"  No  colder  and  not  longer."     "  After Avard  ?  " 
The     Phantom     questioned.      "  Afterward,"     he 
groaned, 

•'  She  said  my  neighbor  was  a  right  good  lord. 
Never  a  roof  Avas  broken  that  he  owned  ; 

He  gave  much  coal  and  clothing.     *  Doth  he  so  ? 

Work  for  my  neighbor,,  then,'  I  ansAvered     '  Go  I 

"  '  You  are  full  welcome.'    Then  she  mumbled  out 
She  hoped  I  was  not  angry  ;  hoped,  forsooth, 

I  would  forgive  her  :  and  1  turned  about, 
And  said  I  should  be  angry  in  good  truth 

If  this  should  be  again  or  ever  more 

She  dared  to  stop  me  thus  at  the  church  door." 

"  Then  ?  "   quoth  the   Shade  ;  and  he,  constrained, 
said  on, 
"Then  she,  reproved,  curtseyed  herself  aAvay." 


THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE.         205 

"  Ilast  met  her  since  ?  "  it  made  demand  anon  ; 
And  after  pause  the  Justice  answered,  "  Ay  ; 
Some  wood  was  stolon  ;  my  people  made  a  stir : 
She  was  accused,  and  I  did  sentence  her." 

But  yet,  and  yet,  the  dreaded  questions  came : 

"And    didst    thou    weigh     the    matter, —  taking 
thought 

Upon  her  sober  life  and  honest  fame  ?" 

"  I  gave  it,"  he  replied,  with  gaze  distraught ; 

"  I  gave  it.  Fiend,  the  usual  care  ;  I  took 

The  usual  pains  ;  I  could  not  nearer  look, 

"  Because — because  their  pilfering  had  got  head. 

What  wouldstthou  more?    The  neighbors  pleaded 
hard, 
'Tis  true,  and  many  tears  the  creature  shed  ; 

But  I  liad  vowed  their  prayei-s  to  disregard, 
Heavily  strike  the  first  that  roblied  my  land, 
And  put  down  thieving  wirli  a  steady  hand. 

"She  said  she  was  not  guilty.     Ay,  'tis  true 

She  said  so,  Ijut  the  poor  are  liars  all. 
0  thou  fell  Fiend,  what  wilt  thou?     Must  I  view 

Thy  darkness  yet,  and  must  thy  shadow  fall 
Upon  me  miserable  ?     I  have  done 
No  worse,  no  more  than  many  a  scathless  one." 

"  Vt't,"  (luoth  the  Shade,  "  if  over  to  thine  oarfl 
Tlie  knowledge  of  her  bhunelossne.ss  was  brought, 

Or  others  have  confessed  with  dying  tears 

The  crime  she  sufTered  for,  and  thou  luist  wrought 

All  reparation  in  thy  power,  and  tojd 

Into  her  empty  liand  thy  brightest  gold  : — 

"  If  thou  liasl.  honored  her,  and  liast  proclaimed 

Her  innocence  and  thy  deplored  wrong. 
Still  thou  art  naught  ;  for  thou  shalt  yet  be  blamed 


r 


2o6  THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE. 

In  that  she,  feeble,  came  before  thee,  strong, 
A.nd  thou,  in  cruel  haste  to  deal  a  blow, 
Because  thou  hadst  been  angered,  worked  her  woe. 

"  But  didst  thou  right  her  ?    Speak !  "    The  Justice 
sighed, 

And  beaded  drops  stood  out  upon  his  brow  ; 
"How  could  I  humble  me,"  forlorn  he  cried, 

' '  To  a  base  beggar  ?     Nay,  I  will  avow 
That  I  did  ill.     I  will  reveal  the  whole ; 
I  kept  that  knowledge  in  my  secret  soul." 

"Hear  him!"  the  Phanton  muttered;    "hear  this 
man, 

O  changeless  God  upon  the  judgment  throne." 
With  that,  cold'tremors  through  his  pulses  ran, 

And  lamentably  he  did  make  his  moan  ; 
While,  Avith  its  arms  upraised  above  his  head, 
The  dim  dread  visitor  approached  his  bed. 

"  Into  these  doors,"  it  said,  "  which  thou  hast  closed, 
Daily  this  woman  shall  from  henceforth  come  ; 

Her  kneeling  form  shall  yet  be  interposed. 

Till  all  thy  wretched  hours  have  told  their  sum, — 

Shall  yet  be  interposed  by  day,  by  night, 

Between  thee,  sinner,  and  the  warmth  and  light. 

"  Remembrance  of  her  want  shall  make  thy  meal 
Like  ashes,  and  thy  wrong  thou  shalt  not  right. 

But  what  I     Nay,  verily,  nor  wealth  nor  weal 
From  henceforth  shall  afford  thy  soul  delight. 

Till  men  shall  lay  thy  head  beneath  the  sod. 

There  shall  be  no  deliverance,  saith  my  God." 

"  Tell  me  thy  name,"  the  dreaming  Justice  cried  ; 

"  By  what  appointment  dost  thou  doom  me  thus  ?  " 
"  'Tis  well  that  thou  shouldst  know  me,"  it  replied, 

"For  mine  thou  art,  and  naught  shall  sever  us  ; 


-4- 


THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE.         207 

From  thine  own  lips  and  life  I  draw  my  force : 
The  name  thy  nation  give  mo  is  Uemokse." 

This  Avhen  he  heard,  the  dreaming  man  cried  out, 
And  woke  affrighted  ;  and  a  crimson  glow 

Tiie  dying  ember  shed.     Within,  Avithout, 
In  eddying  rings  the  silence  seemed  to  flow  ; 

The  wind  had  lulled,  and  on  his  foreliead  shone 

The  last  low  gleam  ;  he  was  indeed  alone. 

"  O,  I  have  had  a  fearful  dream,"  said  ho; 

"  I  will  take  warning  and  for  mercy  trust ; 
The  fiend  Remorse  shall  never  dwell  with  me  : 

I  will  repair  that  wrong,  I  will  be  just, 
I  will  be  kind,  I  will  my  ways  amend." 
Now  the  first  dream  is  told  unto  its  end. 

Anigh  the  frozen  mere  a  cottage  stood, 

A  i)iercing  wind  swept  round  and  shook  the  door, 

The  shrunken  door,  and  easy  way  made  good, 
And  drave  long  drifts  of  snow  along  the  floor. 

It  sparkled  there  like  diamonds,  for  the  moon 

Was  shining  in,  and  night  was  at  the  noon. 

IJeforo  her  dying  embei-s,  bent  and  pale, 
A  woman  sat  because  her  bed  was  cold  ; 

She  hoard  tlu*  wind,  tlic  driving  sleet^antl  hail, 
And  she  was  hungi.'r-bitton,  weak,  and  old  ; 

Yet  while  slio  cowered,  and  while  the  casement  shook, 

Upon  her  trenji)ling  knees  she  held  a  book — 

A  comfurlable  book  for  tiiem  that  mourn, 
And  good  to  raise  the  courage  of  the  poor  ; 

It  lifts  the  veil  and  shows,  beyond  the  bourn, 
Their  I-'Jder  Brother,  from  His  homo  secure, 

Tliat  for  tluMu  desolate  He  dird  to  win, 

Uepealing,  "(.'ome,  ye  blessed,  eiif.-r  in." 


2o8  THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE. 

What  thought  she  on,  this  woinan  ?  on  her  days 
Of  toil,  or  on  the  supperless  night  forlorn  ? 

I  think  not  so  ;  the  heart  but  seldom  weighs 
With  conscious  care  a  burden  always  borne ; 

And  she  was  used  to  these  things,  had  grown  old 

In  fellowshiij  with  toil,  hunger,  and  cold. 

Then  did  she  think  how  sad  it  was  to  live 
Of  all  the  good  this  world  can  yield  bereft  ? 

No,  her  untutored  thoughts  she  did  not  give 
To  such  a  theme  \  but  in  their  warp  and  weft 

She  wove  a  prayer :  then  in  the  midnight  deep 

Faintly  and  slow  she  fell  aAvay  to  sleep. 

A  strange,  a  marvellous  sleep,  which  brought  a  dream^ 
And  it  was  this  :  that  all  at  once  she  heard 

The  pleasant  babbling  of  a  little  stream 
That  ran  beside  her  door,  and  then  a  bird 

Broke  out  in  songs.     She  looked,  and  lo  1  the  rime 

And  snow  had  melted  ;  it  was  summer  time  ! 

And  all  the  cold  was  over,  and  the  mere 

Full  sweetly  swayed  the  flags  and  rushes  green  ; 

The  mellow  sunlight  poured  right  warm  and  clear 
Into  her  casement,  and  thereby  were  seen 

Fair  honeysuckle  flowers,  and  wandering  bees 

Were  hovering  round  the  blossom-laden  trees. 

She  said,  "  1  wifl  betake  me  to  my  door, 

And  will  look  out  and  see  this  wondrous  sight, 

Uow  summer  is  come  back,  and  frost  is  o'er, 
And  all  the  air  warm  Avaxeii  in  a  night." 

With  that  she  opened,  but  for  fear  she  cried, 

For  lo  !  two  angels, — one  on  either  side. 

And  while  she  looked,  with  marvelling  measureless, 
The  Angels  stood  conversing  face  to  face, 

But  neither  spoke  to  her.     "  The  wilderness," 
One  Angel  said,  "the  solitary  place. 


THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAArE  TRUE.         2oo 


Shall  yet  bo  plad  for  ITiin."     And  then  full  fain 
The  other  Anjjrel  answered.  "  He  shall  leig'n." 

And  when  the  woman  hoar^".,  in  wondering  wise, 
She  Avhispered,  "  They  arc  r.pecking  of  my  Lord." 

And  straightway  swept  across  the  open  skies 
Multitudes  like  to  these.     They  took  the  word, 

That  flock  of  Angels,  "  lie  shall  come  again, 

My  Lord,  my  Lord!  "  they  sang,"  and  He  shall  reign  1" 

Then  thoy,  drawn  up  into  the  blue  o'erhead. 
Right  happy,  shining  ones,  made  haste  to  llee  : 

And  those  before  her  one  to  other  said, 

"  Behold  he  stands  aneath  yon  almond-tree." 

This  when  the  woman  heard,  she  fain  had  gazed. 

But  paused  for  reverence,  and  bowed  down  auuized. 

After  she  looked,  for  this  her  dream  was  deep  ; 

She  looked,  and  there  was  naught  beneath  the  tree  j 
Yet  did  liLT  lovu  and  longing  ovcrlfai) 

The  fear  of  Angels,  awful  though  they  be, 
And  she  passed  out  between  the  Ijlessed  things, 
And  brushed  her  mortal  weeds  against  tlieir  wings. 

O.  all  the  happy  world  was  in  its  best. 

The  trees  were  coven-d  thiek  with  buds  and  flowers 
And  these  were  dropping  honey  ;  for  the  rest, 

Sweetly  the  l)irds  were  piping  in  their  Ijowers  j 
Across  the  gnv.'^s  did  groups  of  Angels  go. 
Ami  Saint.s  in  pairs  were  walliiiig  to  and  fro. 

Then  «lid  she  pass  toward  tlie  aIiin>nd-tn*o, 
And  none  she  saw  beneath  it :  yi't  each  Saint 

Ujjon  his  coming  meekly  l)pnt  the  kne?. 

And  all  their  glory  as  thoy  gazed  waxed  faint. 

And  then  a  lighting  Angel  noarod  the  plaoo. 

And  folded  his  fair  wings  before  his  face. 

1 4 


2ro  THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE. 


She  also  knelt,  and  spread  her  aged  hands 

As  feeling  for  the  sacred  human  feet ; 
She  said,  "  Mine  eyes  are  held,  but  if  He  stands 

Anear,  I  will  not  let  llim  hence  retreat 
Except  He  bless  me."     Then,  O  sweet  I  O  fair ! 
Some  words  were  spoken,  but  she  knew  not  where. 

She  knew  not  if  beneath  the  boughs  they  woke. 
Or  dropt  upon  her  from  the  realms  above ; 

"  Wliat  wilt  thou,  woman  ?  '  mthe  dream  He  spoke  ^ 
"  Thy  sorrow  moveth  Me,  thyself  I  love  ; 

liOng  have  I  counted  up  thy  mournful  years, 

Once  I  did  wt-ep  to  wipe  away  thy  tears." 

She  said  .   "  My  one  Redeemer,  only  blest, 

I  know  Thy  voice,  and  from  my  yearning  heart 

Draw  out  ray  deep  desire,  my  great  request, 
My  prayer,  that  I  might  enter  where  Thou  art. 

Call  me,  O  ca  1  from  this  world  troublesome, 

And  let  me  see  Thy  face  "    He  answered,  "  Come." 

Here  is  the  ending  of  the  second  dream. 

It  IS  a  frosty  morning,  keen  and  cold, 
Fast  locked  are  silent  mere  and  frozen  stream, 

And  snow  lies  sparkling  on  the  desert  wold  ; 
With  savory  morning  meats  they  spread  the  board, 
But  Justice  Wilvermore  will  walk  abroad. 

"Bring  me  my  cloak,"  quoth  he,  as  one  in  haste 
"  Before  you  breakfast,  sir?  "  his  man  replies. 

*'  Ay,"  quoth  he,  quickly,  and  he  Avill  not  taste 
Of  aught  before  him,  but  in  urgent  wise, 

As  he  would  fain  some  carking  care  allay, 

Across  the  frozen  lield  he  takes  his  way. 

*'  A  dream  1  how  strange  that  it  should  move  me  so, 
'Twas  Init  a  dream,"  quoth  Justice  Wilvermore: 

'*  And  yet  1  cannot  peace  nor  pleasure  know, 
For  wrongs  1  have  not  heeded  heretofore  ; 


.'^ 


THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE.         2H 


Silver  and  f?ear  the  crone  shall  have  of  me, 
And  dwell  for  life  in  yonder  cottage  free. 

"  For  visions  of  the  night  are  fearful  things, 
Remorse  is  dread,  though  merely  in  a  dream  \ 

I  will  not  subject  me  to  visitings 
Of  such  a  sort  again.     I  will  esteem 

My  peace  above  luy  pride.     From  natures  rude, 

A  little  gold  will  buy  me  gratitude. 

"  The  woman  shall  have  leave  to  gather  wood 
As  much  as  she  may  need,  the  long  year  round  j 

She  fhall,  I  say  ;  moreover,  it  were  good 
Yon  other  cottage  roofs  to  render  sound. 

Thus  to  my  soul  the  ancient  peace  restore. 

And  sleep  at  ease,"  quoth  Justice  Wilvermore. 

Witli  that  lie  nears  the  door  :  a  frosty  riino 
Is  brandling  over  it,  and  drifts  are  deep 

Against  the  wall,     lie  knocks,  and  there  is  time — 
(For  none  doth  open), — time  to  list  the  sweep 

And  whistle  of  the  wind  along  the  more. 

Through  beds  of  stiffened  reeds  and  rushes  sear. 

"  If  she  be  out,  I  have  my  j)ains  for  naught," 
He  saith,  and  knocks  again,  and  yet  once  moro, 

But  to  his  ear  nor  step  nor  stir  is  brouglit  ; 
And,  after  pau^e,  he  doth  uiilutfli  tin?  door 

And  enter.     No  ;  she  is  not  out,  for  sec. 

She  sits  asleep  'midst  frost-work  winterly. 

Asleep,  asleep  liefore  her  emi)ty  grate. 
Asleep,  lu^leep,  albeit  the  landhjrd  eiiil. 

"  What,   dame,"    ho  saith,   and    coujea    toward    her 
straight, 
"  Asleep  so  early  I  "      V>\\\  wh.iti'cr  lu-fall, 

She  sleepeth  ;  then  ho  nears  her,  and  behold 

Ue  lays  a  hand  on  hen*,  and  it  is  culd. 


V 


212  THE  DREAMS  THAT  CAME  TRUE. 

Then  doth  the  Justice  to  his  home  return  ; 

From  that  day  forth  he  wears  a  sadder  brow  ; 
His  hands  are  opened,  and  his  heart  doth  learn 

The  patience  of  the  poor.     He  made  a  vow 
And  keeps  it,  for  the  old  and  sick  have  shared 
His  gifts,  their  sordid  homes  he  hath  repaired. 

And  some  he  hath  made  happy,  but  for  him 
Is  happiness  no  more.     He  doth  repent, 

And  now  the  light  of  joy  is  waxen  dim, 
Are  all  his  hopes  toward  the  Highest  sent ; 

He  looks  for  mercy,  and  he  waits  release 

Above,  for  this  world  doth  not  yield  him  peace. 

Night  after  night,  night  after  desolate  night, 
Day  after  day,  day  after  tedious  day, 

Stands  by  his  fire,  and  dulls  its  gleamy  light, 
Paceth  behind  or  meets  him  in  the  way ; 

Or  shares  the  i)ath  by  hedge-row,  mere,  or  stream 

The  visitor  that  doomed  liim  in  his  dream- 


Thy  kingdom  come. 
I  heard  a  Seer  cry  :     "The  wilderness. 

The  solitary  place, 
Shall  yet  be  glad  for  Him,  and  He  shall  bloss 
(Thy  kingdom  come)  with  his  revealed  face 
The  forests  ;  they  shall  drop  their  precious  gum. 
And  shed  for  Him  their  balm  :  and  He  shall  yield 
The  grandeur  of  His  speech  to  charm  the  field. 

"  Then  all  the  soothed  winds  shall  drop  to  hsten, 

(Thy  kingdom  come,) 
Comforted  waters  waxen  calm  shall  glisten 
With  basliful  tremblement  beneath  His  smile : 

And  Echo  ever  the  while 
Shall  take,  and  in  her  awful  joy  repeat, 


SOA'GS  OX  THE  VOICES  OF  BIRDS.        213 


The  luughter  of  His  lips— (Thy  kin-rdoiu  come)  : 
And  hills  that  sit  apart  shall  be  110  longer  dumb  ; 

No,  they  shall  shout  and  shout, 
Raining  thfir  lovely  loyalty  along  the  dewy  plain  ; 

And  valleys  round  about. 

■•'And  all  the  well-contentod  land,  made  sweet 

With  llowei-s  she  opejied  at  His  feet, 
Shall  answer  ;  shout  and  make  the  welkin  ring 
And  tell  it  to  tlie  stars,  shout,  shout,  and  sing  ; 

Her  cup  being  full  to  the  lirim, 

Her  poverty  ma<le  rich  witii  Him, 
Her  yearning  satisfied  to  its  utmost  sum — 
Lift  up  thy  voice,  O  Earth,  prepare  thy  song, 

It  shall  not  yet  be  long, 
Lift  up,  O  Earth,  fur  Ho  shall  come  again, 
Thy  Lord  ;  and  He  shall  reign,  audii.e  tjUALL  roi£;ri- 

Thy  kingdom  come." 


C^NGS  ON  THE  VOICES  OF  BllirS. 

INTUODL'CTION. 
Cnil,n    AM)    HoATMAN. 

"  Martin,  I  wonder  who  makes  all  the  songs.' 
"  You  do,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yea,  I  wonder  how  they  come." 
"  Wfll,  hoy,  I  wonder  what  you'll  wonder  next  I" 
"  But  someljody  must  make  them  ?  " 

"  bure  enough." 
"  Does  your  wife  know  ?  " 

"  She  never  said  Aw  did.'' 
'*  You  told  me  that  sin-  knew  so  many  things." 
"I  said  slie  was  a  London  woman,  sir, 
And  a  fine  scholar,  but  I  never  said 
Sho  knew  about  the  songs." 


214         SONGS  OV  THE  VOICES  OF  BIRDS. 

"  I  wish  she  did." 

"  And  I  wish  no  such  thing  \  she  knows  enough, 

She  knows  too  much  already.     Look  you  now, 

This  vessel's  off  the  stocks,  a  tidy  craft." 

"  A  schooner,  Martin  ?  " 

"  No,  boy,  no  ;  a  brig, 

Only  she's  schooner-rigged, — a  lovely  craft." 

"  Is  she  for  me  ?    O,  thank  you,  Martin  dear. 

What  shall  I  call  her  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,  what  you  pleaso.'^ 

"  Then  write  on  her  '  The  Eagle.'  " 

"■  Bless  the  child  i 

Eagle  !  why,  you  know  naught  of  eagles,  you. 

When  we  lay  off  the  coast,  up  Canada  way, 

And  chanced  to  be  ashore  when  twilight  fell. 

That  was  the  place  for  eagles  j  bald  they  were. 

With  eyes  as  yellow  as  gold." 

"O  Martin,  dear, 

Tell  me  about  them." 

"  Tell !  tliere's  naught  to  tell, 

Only  they  snored  o'  nights  and  frighted  us," 

"  Snored  ?  " 

"  Ay,  I  tell  you,  snored  ;  they  slept  upright 

In  the  great  oaks  by  scores  ;  as  true  as  time. 

If  I'd  had  aught  upon  my  mind  just  then, 

I  wouldn't  have  walked    that    wood  for  unknown 

gold  ; 
It  was  most  awful.     When  the  moon  was  full, 
I've  seen  them  fish  at  night,  in  the  middle  watch. 
When   she   got  low.      I've   seen   them   plunge   like 

stones. 
And  come  up  fighting  with  a  fish  as  long. 
Ay,  longer  than  my  arm  ;  and.  they  would  sail- 
When  they  had  struck  its  life  out — they  would  sail 
Over  the  deck,  and  show  their  fell,  fierce  eyes. 
And  croon  for  pleasure,  hug  the  prey,  and  speed 
Grand  as  a  frigate  on  the  wind." 


THE  NIGHTINGALE,  ETC.  2x5 


'*  My  ship, 
She  must  he  cuUfd  '  The  Kajrle  '  after  these. 
And,  Martin,  ask  your  wife  about  the  songs 
When  you  go  in  at  dinner-time." 

"  Not  I." 


THE    NIGHTINGALE   HEARD   BY  THE   UNSAT- 
ISFIED HEART. 

Whkx  in  a  May -day  hush 
Clianleth  the  Missel-thrush, 
The  harp  o"  the  heart  makes  answer  with  murmur- 
ous stirs  ; 
When  Robin-redbreast  sings, 
We  think  cm  budding  springs. 
And  Culvers  when  they  coo  are   love's  remembran- 
cers. 

But  thou  in  the  trance  of  light 

Stayest  the  feeding  night, 
And  Echo  makes  sweet  her  lips  with  the   utterance 
wise. 

And  casts  at  our  glad  feet. 

In  a  wisp  of  fancies  fleet, 
Life's  fair,  life's  unfulfilled,  inipafisiouod  prophecies. 

Her  central  thought  full  well 

Thou  hast  the  wit  to  tell, 
To  take  the  sen.se  o'  the  dark  and  to  yielil  it  so  ; 

The  moral  of  moonlight 

To  net  in  acjulence  bright, 
And   sing   "nr  lofti'-st   dream  that  we  thought   nuiiu 
dill  know. 

I  have  no  nest  jim  thou, 
Bird  on  the  blossoming  bojigh. 
Yet  over  thy  tongue  outlloweth  tho  soug  o'  my  BOill, 


2l6  SAND  MARTINS. 

Chanting,  "  Forego  thy  strife, 
The  spirit  out-acts  the  hfe. 
But  MUCH  is  seldom  theirs  who  can  perceive  thb 

WHOLE. 

"  Thou  drawest  a  perfect  lot 

All  thine,  but  holden  not, 
Lie  low,  at  the  feet  of  beauty  that  ever  shall  bide  ; 

There  might  be  sorer  smart 

Than  thine,  far-seeing  heart, 
Whose  fate  is  still  to  yearn,  and  not  be  satisfied." 


SAND  MARTINS. 

I  PASSKD  an  inland-cliff  precipitate  ; 

From  tiny  caves  peeped  many  a  sooty  poll ; 
In  each  a  mother-martin  sat  elate, 

And  of  the  news  delivered  her  small  soul. 

Fantastic  chatter  1  hasty,  glad,  and  gay. 
Whereof  the  meaning  was  not  ill  to  tell  : 

"  Gossip,  liow  wags  the  world  with  you  to-day  ? ' 
"  Gossip,  the  world    wags   well,   the   Avorld   wags 
well." 

And  hark'ning,  I  was  sure  their  little  ones 

Were  in  the  bird-talk,  and  discourse  was  made 

Concerning  hot  sea-bights  and  tropic  suns. 
For  a  clear  sultriness  the  tune  conveyed  ; — 

And  visions  of  the  sky  as  of  a  cup 

Hailing  down  light  on  pagan  Pharaoh's  sand, 
And  quivering  air-waves  trembling  up  and  up, 

And  blank  stone  faces  marvellously  bland. 

•'  When  should  the  young  be  fledged  and  with  them 
hie 
Where  costly  day  drops  down  in  crimson  light? 


SAND  MA  K  TINS.  2  1 7 

(Fortunate  countries  of  the  fire-fly 

Swarm  with  tlie  blue  diamonds  all  the  sultry  iiit,'ht, 

"And  the  immortal  moon  takes  turn  with  them.) 
When  should  they  pass  a;^ain  by  that  red  land. 

Where  lovely  mirage  works  a  broiden'd  hem 
To  fringe  with  phantom-palms  a  robe  of  sand  ? 

"  When  should  they  dip  their  breasts  again  and  play 
In  slumberous  azure  pools,  clear  as  the  air, 

Wlx'p'  rdsy-wingrtl  flauiingoes  fish  all  day, 
Stalking  amid  the  lotos-blossom  fair  ? 

"  Then,  over  podded  tamarinds  bear  their  flight. 
While  cassias  blossom  in  the  zone  of  cahus, 

And  so  betake  them  to  a  south  sea- bight, 
To  gossip  in  the  crowns  of  cocoa  palms 

"  Whose  roots  are  in  the  spray.     O,  liaply  thero 
(Some  (lawn,   white-wingid  they  might  chanco  to 
find 

A  frigate,  standing  in  to  make  more  fair 
The  loneliness  unaltered  of  mankind. 

"A  frigate  come  to  water  :   nuts  would  fall, 
And  nimble  feet  would   climb   the    llower-llusbed 
strand, 

While  ncjrthern  talk  would  ring,  and  thi'rewithal 
The  martins  would  desire  the  cool  north  land. 

"  And  all  would  l>e  ;is  it  had  been  ]>efore  ; 

Again,  at  eve,  there  wt)uld  be  news  to  t4'll  ; 
Who  jwus.sed  should  hear  them  <"hHnt  it  o'er  and  o'ei> 

'  G<)ssip,  how   wa^ja   tho  -world?'      '  V/ell,   goKsip, 
woU  •  •' 


2l8  A  POET  IN  HIS  YOUTH,  AND 


A   POET    IN    HIS    YOUTH,   AND  THE   CUCKOO- 
BIRD. 

Once  upon  a  time,  I  lay 
Fast  asleep  at  dawn  of  day  ; 
Windows  open  to  the  south, 
Fancy  pouting  her  sweet  mouth 
To  my  ear. 

She  turned  a  globe 
In  her  slender  hand,  her  robe 
Was  all  spangled  ;  and  she  said, 
As  she  sat  at  my  bed's  head, 
•'  Poet,  poet,  what !  asleep  ? 
Look  !  the  ray  runs  up  the  steep 
To  your  roof."     Then  in  the  golden 
Essence  of  romances  olden, 
Bathed  she  my  entranced  heart. 
And  she  gave  a  hand  to  me, 
Drew  me  onward  ;  "  Come  !  "  said  she ; 
And  she  moved  Avith  me  apart, 
Down  the  lovely  vale  of  Leisure. 

Such  its  name  was,  I  heard  say, 
For  some  fairies  trooped  that  way  ; 
Common  people  of  the  place, 
Taking  their  accustomed  pleasure 
(All  the  clocks  being  stopped),  to  race 
Down  the  slope  on  palfreys  fleet. 
Bridle  bells  made  tinkling  sweet ; 
And  they  said,  "  What  signified 
Fai-ing  home  till  eventide  ; 
There  were  pies  on  every  shelf. 
And  the  bread  would  bake  itself." 
But  for  that  I  cared  not,  fed. 
As  it  were,  with  angels'  bread, 


THE  CUCKOO-BTRD.  219 

Sweet  as  honey  ;  yet  next  day 
All  foredoomed  to  melt  away? 
Gone  l)efore  the  sun  waxed  hot, 
Melted  manna  that  rcas  not. 

Rofk-doves'  poetry  of  plaint, 
Or  the  starling's  courtship  quaint  ; 
Heart  made  much  of,  'twas  a  boon 
Won  from  silence,  and  too  soou 
Wasted  in  the  ample  air  : 
Buildin;^  rooks  far  distant  were 
Scarce  at  all  would  speak  the  rills, 
And  I  saw  the  idle  hills. 
In  their  amber  hazes  deep, 
Fi)ld  themselves  and  go  to  sleep. 
Though  it  was  not  yet  high  noon. 

Silence  ?     Rather  music  brought 
From  the  spheres  !     As  if  a  thought, 
llaving  taki'n  wings,  did  lly 
Through  the  reaches  of  tiie  sky. 
Silence?     No,  a  sumptuous  sigh 
That  had  found  »?mbodiment. 
That  had  come  across  the  deep 
After  months  of  wintry  sleep, 
And  with  tender  heavings  went 
Floating  up  the  lirmament. 

*'(),"   1  mourned,  half  slumbering  yet, 
"  'Tis  the  voice  of  my  regret, — 
Mine!"  and  1  awoke.     Full  sw»jet 
SalTron  sunbeams  did  me  greet; 
And  tlie  voii-<'  it  si)akc  again, 
Drojiped  from  yon  l)lue  cup  of  light 
Or  some  cloudlet  swan's-down  whito 
On  my  soul,  that  drank  full  fain 
The  sharp  joy — the  sweet  paui— 


230  A  POET  IN  HIS  YOUTH,  AND 

Of  its  clear,  right  innocent, 
Unreproved  discontent. 
How  it  came — where  it  went — 
Who  can  tell  ?     The  open  blue 
Quivered  with  it,  and  I,  too, 
Trembled.     I  remembered  me 
Of  the  springs  that  used  to  be, 
When  a  dimpled  white-haired  child, 
Shy  and  tender  and  half  wild. 
In  the  meadows  I  had  heard 
Some  way  off  the  talking  bird, 
And  had  felt  it  marvellous  sweet, 
For  it  laughed  :  it  did  me  greet, 
Calling  me  :  yet,  hid  away 
In  the  woods,  it  would  not  jDlay. 
No. 

And  all  the  world  about, 
While  a  man  will  Avork  or  sing. 
Or  a  child  pluck  flowers  of  spring, 
Thou  wilt  scatter  music  out, 
Rouse  him  with  thy  wandering  note, 
Changeful  fancies  set  afloat. 
Almost  tell  with  thy  clear  throat, 
But  not  quite,  the  wonder-rife, 
Most  sweet  riddle,  dark  and  dim, 
That  he  searcheth  all  his  life, 
Searcheth  yet,  and  ne'er  expoundeth  j 
And  so,  winnowing  of  thy  wings. 
Touch  and  trouble  his  heart's  strings, 
Tliat  a  certain  music  soundeth 
In  that  wondrous  instrument. 
With  a  trembling  upward  sent, 
That  is  reckoned  sweet  above 
By  the  Greatness  surnamed  Love. 

"  O,  I  hear  thee  in  the  blue  ; 
Would  that  I  might  wing  it  tool 


THE  CUCrCOO-BTRD.  221 


O  to  havo  what  liopf>  hath  seen  \ 
O  to  he  what  jiiif^ht  have  heen  I 

0  to  set  my  hfe,  sweet  bird, 
To  a  tune  that  oft  I  heard 
When  I  used  to  stand  alone 
Listenin;.;  to  the  lovely  moan 
Of  the  swaying  pines  o'erliead, 
While,  a-gatherin{?  of  bee-bread 
For  their  livinp;,  nmrnuired  round, 
As  the  i)ollon  dropped  to  ground, 
All  the  nations  from  the  hives; 
And  the  little  brooding  wives 

On  each  nest,  brown  dusky  things, 
Sat  with  gold-dust  on  their  wings. 
Then  beyond  (more  sweet  than  .all) 
Talk-'d  the  tumi)ling  waterfall  ; 
And  there  were,  and  there  were  not 
(As  might  fall,  and  forui  anew 
Bell-hung  drf)ps  of  honey-di'w) 
Echoes  of — I  know  not  what ; 
As  if  some  right-joyous  elf, 
While  ab(Mit  his  own  affairs, 
Whistled  softly  otherwheres. 
Nay,  a.s  if  our  mother  dear. 
Wrapt  in  sun-warm  atmosphere, 
Laughed  a  little  to  lu-rself. 
Laughed  a  little  as  she  rolled, 
Thinking  on  the  days  of  old. 

"  Ah  !  tliere  be  sonin  lieart.s,  T  wia, 
To  whii'h  nothing  eoines  amiss. 
Mine  wjis  one.     Mueh  secret  wealth 

1  was  heir  to:  and  by  stealth. 
Wiit'ii  the  moon  was  fully  grown. 
And  she  thought  herself  alon<«, 

I  have  hcani  her,  ay,  right  well, 
Shoot  a  hilvcr  nu-ssage  down 


at22  A  POFT  IN  ins  YOUTH,  ETC. 

To  the  unseen  sentinel 

Of  a  still,  snow-thatched  toAvn. 

*'  Once,  awhile  ago,  I  peered 
In  the  nest  where  Spring  was  reared. 
There  she,  quivering  her  fair  wings, 
Flattered  March  with  ehirrnpings; 
And  they  fed  her  ;  nights  and  days. 
Fed  her  mouth  with  much  sweet  food, 
And  her  heart  with  love  and  praise, 
Till  the  wild  thing  rose  and  flew 
Over  woods  and  water-springs, 
Shaking  off  the  morning  dew 
In  a  rainbow  from  her  wings. 

"  Once  (I  will  to  you  confide 
More), — O,  once  in  forest  wide. 
I,  benighted,  overheard 
Marvellous  mild  echoes  stirred, 
And  a  calling  half  defined, 
And  an  answering  from  afar  ; 
Somewhat  talked  with  a  star, 
And  the  talk  was  of  mankind. 

'" '  Cuckoo,  cuckoo  ! ' 

Float  anear  in  upper  blue  : 

Art  tliou  yet  a  prophet  true  ? 

Wilt  thou  say,  '  And  having  seen 

Things  that  be,  and  have  not  been. 

Thou  art  free  o'  the  world,  for  naught 

Can  despoil  thee  of  thy  thought  ?  ' 

Nay,  but  make  me  music  yet, 

liii-d,  as  deep  as  my  regret ; 

For  a  certain  hope  liatli  set, 

Like  a  star,  and  left  me  heir 

'J'o  a  crying  for  its  light, 

An  aspiring  infinite,  ^ 

And  a  beautiiul  despair  I 


A  RAVKI7  IN  A   WHITE  CHINE.  223 

'*  Ah  !  no  more,  no  more,  no  moro 
I  shall  lio  p.t  thy  shut  door, 
Mine  ideal,  my  desired, 
Dreaming  thou  wilt  open  it, 
And  step  ont,  thou  most  admired, 
By  my  side  to  fare,  or  sit, 
Qtionchinp:  hunger  and  all  drouth 
Witli  the  wit  of  thy  fair  mouth. 
Showing  me  the  wisht-d  prize 
In  the  calm  of  tliy  dove's  eyes, 
Teaching  nie  the  wonder-rife 
Majesties  of  human  life. 
All  it«  fairest  possible  sum. 
And  the  gi*ace  of  its  to  come. 

"  What  a  difTerence !     Why  of  lat** 
All  sweet  music  used  to  say, 
'She  will  come,  and  with  thee  stay 
To-morrow,  man,  if  not  to-day.' 
Now  it  rumors,  '  Wait,  wait,  wait  I '  " 


A  llWr'.N  IN  A  WIIITK  CriINE. 

I  saw,  when  I  looked  up,  tin  eillier  liand, 

A  pale  liigli  chalk-clill,  reared  aloft  in  wliit^*; 

A  narrowing  rent  soon  closed  toward  the  land, — 
Toward  the  sea,  an  oi)cn  yawning  bight. 

The  polished  tide,  with  scarce  a  hint  of  blue, 
Washed  in  tl»e  bight ;  above  with  angry  moan 

A  ravi'ii,  that  was  rol)l)ed,  sat  up  in  view, 
(Trnaking  and  crying  on  a  leilge  alone. 

"Stand  i>}\  thy  nest,  spn'ad  out  thy  fateful  wings, 
With  sulli-n  hungry  l<tve  bemoan  thy  brood. 

For    boys    h.ivi'  wrung  tli<'ir    necks,    those   imp-liko 
things. 
Whos»>  beali"-  iiri[tp'«ii  crini-on  d.iily  hi  iii'ir  food. 


224  A  RA  VEN  IN  A   WHITE  CHINE. 

"  Cry,  thou  black  prophetess  1  cry,  and  despair  ; 

None  love  thee,  none  !     Their  father  was  thy  foe, 
Whose  father  in  his  youth  did  know  thy  lair. 

And  steal  thy  little  demons  long  ago. 

"  Thou  madest  many  childless  for  their  sake, 
And  picked  out  many  eyes  that  loved  the  light. 

Cry,  thou  black  prophetess  !  sit  up,  awake. 
Forebode ;    and  ban  them  through   the  desolate 
night." 

Lo  !  while  I  spake  it,  with  a  crimson  hue 
The  dipping  sun  endowed  that  silver  flood, 

And  all  the  cliffs  flushed  red,  and  up  she  Hew, 
The  bird,  as  mad  to  bathe  in  airy  blood. 

"  Nay,  thou  mayst  cry,  the  omen  is  not  thine, 
Thou  aged  priestess  of  fell  doom,  and  fate. 

It  is  not  blood  :  thy  gods  are  making  wine. 
They  spilt  the  must  outside  their  city  gate, 

"And  stained  their  azure  pavement  with  the  lees: 
They  will  not  listen  though  thou  crj'  aloud. 

Old  Chance,  thy  dame,  sits  mumbling  at  her  ease, 
Nor  hears  ;  the  fair  hag.  Luck,  is  in  her  shroud. 

*'  They  heed  not,  thej--  withdraw  the  sky-hung  sign  : 
Thou  hast  no  charm  against  the  favorite  race  ; 

Thy  gods  pour  out  for  it,  not  blood,  but  wine  : 
There  is  no  justice  in  their  dwelling-place  ! 

"  Safe  in  their  father's  house  the  boys  shall  rest. 
Though  thy  fell  brood  doth  stark  and  silent  lie ; 

Their  unborn  sons  may  yet  despoil  thy  nest : 
Cry,  thou  black  xjrojjhetecss  I  lift  up  I  cry,  cry  I  " 


THE  WA  KB  LING  OF  BLA  CK-BIRDS.        225 


THE  WARBLING  OF  BLACK-BIRDS. 

"Whex  I  hear  the  waters  fretting, 
When  1  see  the  chestnut  letting? 
All  her  lovely  blossom  falter  down,  I  think,  "Alas 
the  day!" 
Once,  -with  magical  sweet  singing, 
Bhiokbirds  set  the  woodland  rin<,'ing, 
That  awakts  no  more  while  April  liours  wear  them- 
selves away. 

In  our  hearts  fair  liope  lay  smiling, 
Sweet  as  air,  and  all  beguiling; 
And  there  liung  a  mist  of  bluebells  on  the  slope  and 
down  the  d<'ll  ; 
And  we  talk<'d  of  joy  and  sjilendor 
That  the  yi'ars  unborn  would  render, 
And  the  backbirds  helped  us  with  tlie  story,  for  they 
knew  it  well. 

Piping,  fluting,  "  Bees  are  humming, 
April's  here,  and  summer's  coming  ; 
Don't  forget   us  when  you  walk,  a  man  with  men,  in 
jjride  and  joy  ; 
Think  on  us  in  alleys  shady, 
When  you  st»*p  a  graceful  lady  ; 
For  no  fjiirer  day  liavo  we  to  hope  for,  little  girl  umJ 
boy. 

"Laugh  and  play,  (^  lisping  waters. 

Lull  our  downy  sons  and  daughlfrs  ; 
Come,  ()  wind,  and  rock  their  lenfv   .rnll.'  in    thy 
wanderings  coy  ; 

Wlien  they  wake,  we'll  end  the  nw^asuro 

With  a  wikl  sweet  cry  of  pleasure, 

And  a  'Hey  down  dorry,  let's  bo  merry  I  little  girl 

find  bovl'  " 

15 


226  SEA-MEWS  IN  WINTER  TIME. 


SEA-MEWS  IIN  "WINTER  TIME. 

I  WALKED  beside  a  dark  gray  sea, 

And  said,  "  O  world,  how  cold  tliou  art ! 

riiou  poor  white  world,  I  pity  thee, 
Por  joy  and  warmth  from  thee  depart. 

"  Yon  rising  wave  licks  off  the  snow, 
Winds  on  the  crag  each  other  cliase, 

In  little  powdery  whirls  they  blow 
The  misty  fragments  down  its  face. 

"  The  sea  is  cold,  and  dark  its  rim, 
Winter  sits  cowering  on  the  wold, 

And  I,  beside  this  watery  brim, 
Am  also  lonely,  also  cold." 

I  spoke,  and  drew  toward  a  rock, 

Where  many  mews  made  twittering  sweet : 

Their  wings  upreared,  the  clustering  flock 
T)id  pat  the  sea-grass  with  their  feet. 

A  rock  but  half  submerged,  the  sea 
Ran  lip  and  washed  it  while  they  fed  ; 

Their  fond  and  foolish  ecstasy 
A  wondering  in  my  fancy  bred. 

Joy  corapanied  with  every  cry, 

Joy  in  their  food,  in  that  keen  wind, 

That  heaving  sea,  that  shaded  sky. 
And  in  themselves,  and  in  their  kind. 

The  phantoms  of  the  deep  at  play  I 

What  idless  graced  the  t-.vittering  thiugt'  " 

Lrxnrioiis  pp.ddlings  in  the  spray, 
And  dieu^a.it»  littjiiii  uj.>  of  wiJLit;^. 


LAURA  NCR.  7a) 


Then  all  at  once  a  flight,  and  fast 
The  lovely  crowd  flew  out  to  sea  ; 

If  mine  own  life  had  been  recast, 

Earth  had  not  looked  more  changed  to  me- 

"  Where  is  the  cold  ?     Yon  clouded  sides 
Have  only  dropped  their  curtains  low 

To  shade  the  old  mother  where  she  lies, 
Sleeping  a  little,  'neath  the  snow. 

•'  The  cold  is  not  in  crag,  nor  scar, 
Not  in  the  snows  that  lap  the  lea, 

Not  in  your  wings  that  beat  afar, 
Delighting,  on  the  crested  sea  j 

•'  No,  nor  in  yon  exultant  wind 

That  shakes  the  oak  and  bends  the  pine 
Look  near,  look  in,  and  thou  shalt  find 

No  sense  of  cold,  fond  fool,  but  thine  I  " 

With  that  I  felt  the  gloom  depart, 
And  thoughts  within  me  did  unfold, 

Whose  sunshine  warmed  me  to  the  heart : 
I  walked  in  joy,  and  was  not  cold. 


LAURA  NCE. 

I. 

He  knew  she  did  not  love  him  ;  but  so  long 

As  rivals  were  unknown  to  him,  he  dwelt 

At  ease,  and  did  not  find  his  love  a  pain. 

He  had  much  deference  in  his  nature,  need 

To  honor, — it  became  him  :  he  was  frank. 

Fresh,  hardy,  of  a  joyous  mind,  and  strong, — 

Looked  all  things  straight  in  the  face.     So  when  dhe 

came 
Before  him  first,  he  looked  at  her,  and  looked 


S28  LAU RANGE. 


No  more,  but  colored  to  his  healthful  brow, 

And  wished  himself  a  better  man,  and  thought 

On  certain  things,  and  wished  they  were  undone, 

Because  her  girlish  innocence,  the  grace 

Of  her  unblemished  pureness,  wrought  in  him 

A  longing  and  aspiring,  and  a  shame 

To  think  how  wicked  was  the  world, — that  world 

Which  he  must  walk  in, — while  from  her  (and  such 

As  she  was)  it  was  hidden  ;  there  was  made 

A  clean  path,  and  the  girl  moved  on  like  one 

In  some  enchanted  ring. 

In  his  young  heart 
She  reigned,  with  all  the  beauties  tliat  she  had, 
And  all  the  virtues  that  he  rightly  took 
For  granted  ;  there  he  set  her  with  her  crown, 
And  at  her  first  enthronement  he  turned  out 
Much  that  was  best  away,  for  unaware 
His  thoughts  grew  noble.     She  was  always  there 
And  knew  it  not,  and  he  grew  like  to  her, 
And  like  to  what  he  thought  her. 

Now  he  dwelt 
With  kin  that  loved  him  well,— rtwo  fine  old  folk, 
A  rich,  right  honest  yeoman,  and  his  dame, — 
Their  only  grandson  he,  their  pride,  their  heir. 
To  these  one  daughter  had  been  born,  one  child, 
And  as  she  grew  to  woman,  "  Look,"  they  said, 
"  She  must  not  leave  us  ;  let  us  build  a  wing, 
With  cheerful  rooms  and  wide,  to  our  old  grange  ; 
There  may  she  dwell,  with  her  good  man.  and  ;iil 
God  sends  them."    Then  the  girl  in  her  first  youth 
Married  a  curate, — handsome,  poor  in  purse. 
Of  gentle  blood  and  manners,  and  he  lived 
Under  her  father's  roof  as  they  had  planned. 

Full  soon,  for  happy  years  are  short,  they  filled 
The  house  with  children  ;  four  were  born  to  theiu. 


LAURANCE.  229 


Tlien  came  a  sickly  season  ;  fever  spread 
Among  the  poor.     The  curate,  never  slack 
In  duty,  prayinj::  by  the  sick,  or,  worse, 
Burying  the  dead,  when  all  the  air  was  clogged 
With  poisonous  mist,  was  stricken  ;  long  he  lay 
Sick,  almost  to  the  death,  and  when  his  head 
He  lifted  from  the  pillow,  there  was  left 
One  only  of  that  pretty  flock  :  his  girls. 
His  three,  were  cold  beneath  the  sod  ;  his  boy. 
Their  eldest  bom,  remained. 

The  drooping  wife 
Bore  her  great  sorrow  in  such  quiet  Avise, 
That  first  they  marvelled  at  her,  then  they  tried 
To  rouse  her,  showing  her  their  bitter  grief, 
Lamenting,  and  not  sparing  ;  but  she  sighed, 
"  Let  me  alone,  it  will  not  be  for  long." 
Then  did  her  mother  tremble,  murnmring  out, 
"  Dear  child,  the  best  of  comfort  will  be  soon, 
O,  Avhen  you  see  this  other  little  face, 
You  will,  please  God,  be  comforted." 

She  said, 
"  I  shall  not  live  to  see  it ;  "   but  she  did, — 
A  little  sickly  face,  a  wan,  thin  face. 
Then  she  grew  eager,  and  her  eyes  were  bright 
When  she  would  plead  with  them,  "  Take  me  away, 
Let  n)0  go  south  ;  it  is  the  bitter  blast 
That  chills  my  tender  babe  ;  she  ctmnot  thrive 
Under  the  desolate,  dull,  mournful  cloud." 
Then  all  they  journeyed  south  together,  nuite 
With  past  and  coming  sorrow,  till  the  sun. 
In  gardens  edging  the  blue  tideloss  iii.ain, 
Warmed  them  and  calmed  the  aching  at  their  hearts, 
And  all  went  better  for  a  while  j  but  not 
For  long.     They  sitting  by  the  orango  trees 
Onoe  rested,  and  the  wife  was  very  still ; 


230  LAURANCE. 


A  woman  with  narcissus  flowers  heaped  up 
Let  down  her  basket  from  her  head,  but  paused 
With  pitying  gesture,  and  drew  near  and  stooped, 
Taking  a  wliite  wild  face  upon  her  breast. 
The  httle  babe  on  its  poor  mother's  knees, 
None  marking  it,  none  knowing  else,  had  died. 

The  fading  mother  covild  not  stay  behind. 
Her  heart  was  broken  :  but  it  awed  them  most 
To  feel  they  must  not,  dared  not,  pray  for  life. 
Seeing  she  longed  to  go,  and  went  so  gladly. 
After,  these  three,  who  loved  each  other  well. 
Brought  their  one  child  away,  and  they  were  best 
Together  in  the  wide  old  grange.     Full  oft 
The  father  with  the  mother  talked  of  her. 
Their  daughter,  but  the  husband  nevermore  3 
He  looked  for  solace  in  his  work,  and  gave 
His  mind  to  teach  his  boy.     And  time  went  on, 
Until  the  grandsire  prayed  those  other  two, 
"  Now  part  with  him  ;  it  must  be  ;  for  his  good  : 
He  rules  and  knows  it ;  choose  for  him  a  school, 
Let  him  have  all  the  advantages,  and  all 
Good  training  that  should  make  a  gentleman," 

With  that  they  parted  from  their  boy,  and  lived 

Longing  between  his  holidays,  and  time 

Sped  ;  he  grew  on  till  he  had  eighteen  years. 

His  father  loved  him,  wished  to  make  of  him 

Another  parson  ;  but  the  farmer's  wife 

Murmured  at  that — "  No,  no,  they  learned  bad  waj'S, 

They  ran  in  debt  at  college  ;  she  had  heard 

That  many  rued  the  day  they  sent  their  boys 

To  college  ;  "  and  between  the  two  broke  in 

His  grandsire,  "  Find  a  sober,  honest  man, 

A  scholar,  for  our  lad  should  see  the  world 

While  he  is  young,  that  he  may  marry  young. 

lie  will  not  settle  and  be  satisQod 


LAURANCE.  231 


Till  he  has  run  about  the  world  awhile. 

Good  lack,  I  longed  to  travel  in  my  youth, 

And  had  no  chance  to  do  it.     Send  him  off, 

A  sober  man  being  found  to  trust  him  with, — 

One  with  the  fear  of  God  before  his  eyes." 

A  nd  he  prevailed  ;  the  careful  father  chose 

A  tutor,  young,  the  worthy  matron  thought, — 

Tn  truth,  not  ten  years  older  than  her  boy, 

And  glad  as  he  to  range,  and  keen  for  snows, 

Desert,  and  ocean.     And  they  made  strange  choice 

Of  where  to  go,  left  the  sweet  day  behind, 

And  pushed  up  north  in  whaling  ships,  to  feel 

What  cold  was,  see  the  blowing  whale  come  up, 

And  Arctic  creatures,  while  a  scarlet  sun 

Went  round  and  round,  crowd  on  the  clear  blue  berg. 

Then  did  the  trappers  have  them  ;  and  they  heard 

Nightly  the  whistling  calls  of  forest-men 

That  mocked  the  forest  wonders  j  and  they  saw 

Over  the  open,  raging  up  like  doom, 

The  dangerous  dust-cloud,  that  was  full  of  eyes — 

The  bisons.     So  were  three  years  gone  like  one  ; 

And  the  old  cities  drew  them  for  awhile, 

(Treat  mothers,  by  the  Tiber  and  the  Seine ; 

They  have  hid  many  sons  hard  by  their  seats, 

But  all  the  air  is  stirring  with  them  still. 

The  waters  murmur  of  them,  skies  at  eve 

Are  stained  with  their  rich  blood,  and  every  sound 

Means  men. 

At  last,  the  fourth  year  running  out, 
The  youth  came  home.     And  all  the  cheerful  houyo 
Was  decked  in  fresher  colors,  and  the  dame 
Was  full  of  joy.     But  in  the  father's  heart 
Abode  a  painful  doubt.     "  It  is  not  well  ; 
He  canu(jt  8i)end  his  life  with  dog  and  guu. 
I  do  not  care  that  my  one  son  sliuuld  sloop 


232  LAURA  NCR. 


Merely  for  keeping  him  in  breath,  and  wake 
Only  to  ride  to  cover." 

IS  ot  the  less 
The  grandsire  pondered,     "  Ay,  the  boy  must  work 
Or  SPEND  ;  and  I  must  let  him  spend  ;  just  stay 
Awhile  Avith  us,  and  then  from  time  to  time 
Have  leave  to  be  away  with  those  fine  folk 
With  whom,  these  many  years,  at  school,  and  now, 
During  his  sojourn  in  the  foreign  towns, 
lie  has  been  made  familiar."     Thus  a  month 
Went  by.     They  liked  the  stirring  ways  of  youth. 
The  quick  elastic  step,  and  joyous  mind. 
Ever  expectant  of  it  knew  not  what, 
But  something  higher  than  has  e'er  been  born 
Of  easy  slumber  and  sweet  competence. 
And  as  for  him,  the  while  they  thought  and  tiiougiit 
A  comfortable  instinct  let  him  know 
How  they  had  waited  for  him,  to  complete 
And  give  a  meaning  to  their  lives  ;  and  still 
At  home,  but  with  a  sense  of  newness  there, 
And  frank  and  fresh  as  in  the  school-boy  days, 
He  oft — invading  of  his  father's  haunts, 
The  study  where  he  passed  the  silent  morn — 
Would  sit,  devouring  with  a  greedy  joy 
The  piled-up  books,  uncut  as  yet ;  or  wake 
To  guide  with  him  by  night  the  tube,  and  search. 
Ay,  think  to  find  new  stars  ;  then,  risen  betimes, 
Would  ride  about  the  farm,  and  list  the  talk 
Of  his  hale  grandsire. 

But  a  day  came  round, 
When,  after  i:)pering  in  his  mother's  room, 
Shaded  and  shuttered  from  the  light,  he  oped 
A  door,  and  found  the  rosy  grandmother 
Ensconced  and  happy  in  her  special  pride. 
Her  store-room.     She  was  corking  syrups  raro, 
And  fruits  all  sparkling  iu  a  crystal  coat. 


LAURANCE.  233 


Here,  after  choice  of  certain  cates  well  known, 
He,  sitting  on  her  bacon-chest  at  ease, 
Sang  as  he  watched  her,  till,  right  suddenly, 
As  if  a  new  thought  came,  "  Goody,"  quoth  he, 
"  What,  think  you,  do  they  want  to  do  with  me? 
What  have  they  planned  for  me  that  I  should  do  ? " 

'  Do,  laddie !  "  quoth  she,  faltering,  half  in  tears ; 
"  Are  you  not  haj^py  with  us  ?  not  content  ? 
Why  would  ye  go  away  ?     There  is  no  need 
That  ye  should  do  at  all.     O,  bide  at  home. 
Have  we  not  plenty  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  wish  to  go." 


Even  so,"  he  said; 


"  Nay,  then,"  quoth  she, 
"  Be  idle  ;  let  me  see  your  blessed  face. 
AVhat,  is  the  horse  your  father  chose  for  you 
Not  to  your  mind  ?    He  is  ?     Well,  well,  remain  ; 
Do  as  you  will,  so  you  but  do  it  here. 
You  shall  not  want  for  money." 

But,  his  arms 
Folding,  he  sat  and  twisted  up  his  mouth 
With  comical  discomfiture. 

"  What,  then," 
Hhe  sighed,  "  what  is  it,  child,  that  you  would  like  ?  " 
*'  Why,"  said  he,  "  farming." 

And  she  looked  at  him. 
Fond,  foolish  woman  that  she  was,  to  find 
Home  fitness  in  the  worker  for  the  work. 
And  she  found  none.     A  certain  grace  there  was 
Of  movement,  and  a  beauty  in  the  face, 
Suii-brownod  and  healthful  beauty,  that  had  come 
Prom  his  grav(>  father ;  and  slie  thought,  "(Joodlack, 
A  farmer  1  he  is  litter  for  a  duke. 


234  LAURANCE. 


He  walks— why,  how  he  walks  !  if  I  should  meet 
One  like  him,  whom  I  knew  not,  I  should  ask. 
And  who  may  that  be  ?  "     So  the  foolish  thought 
Found    words.      Quoth     she,    half     laughing,    half 

ashamed, 
"  We  planned  to  make  of  you — a  gentleman." 
And,  with  engaging  sweet  audacity, — 
She  thought  it  nothing  less,— he,  looking  up, 
With  a  smile  in  his  blue  eyes,  rephed  to  her, 
"  And  haven't  you  done  it  ?  "     Quoth  she,  lovingly, 
"  1  think  we  have,  laddie  ;  I  think  we  have." 
"  Then,"  quoth  he,  "  I  may  do  what  best  I  like  5 
It  makes  no  matter.     Goody,  you  were  wise 
To  help  me  in  it,  and  to  let  me  farm  ; 
I  think  of  getting  into  mischief  else  !  " 
"  No  1  do  ye,  laddie  ?  "  quoth  the  dame,  and  laughed, 
"  But  ask  my  grandfather,"  the  youth  went  on, 
"  To  lot  me  have  the  farm  he  bought  last  year, 
The  httle  one,  to  manage.     I  hke  land  ; 
I  want  some."     And  she,  womanlike,  gave  way, 
Convinced  ;  and  promised,  and  made  good  her  word, 
And  that  same  night  upon  the  matter  spoke, 
In  presence  of  the  father  and  the  son. 


"  Roger,"  quoth  she,  "  our  Laurance  wants  to  farm  ; 

"  I  think  he  might  do  Avorse."     The  father  sat 

Mute,  but  right  glad.     The  grandson,  breaking  in, 

Set  all  his  wish  and  his  ambition  forth  ; 

But  cunningly  the  old  man  hid  his  joy, 

And  made  conditions  with  a  faint  demur. 

Then,  pausing,  "  Let  your  father  speak,"  quoth  he  5 

"  I  am  content  if  he  is."     At  his  word 

The  parson  took  him  ;  ay,  and,  parson  like, 

Put  a  religious  meaning  in  the  work, 

Mii-n's  earliest  work,  and  wished  his  son  God  speed. 


LAURA  NCE.  233 


n. 

Thus  all  were  satisfied,  and,  day  by  day. 

For  two  sweet  years  a  happy  course  was  theirs  3 

Happy,  but  yet  the  foi^^unate,  the  youiig 

Loved,  and  much  cared-for,  entered  on  his  strife, — 

A  stirring?  of  the  heart,  a  quickening  keen 

Of  sight  and  hearing  to  the  delicate 

Beauty  and  music  of  an  altered  world  — 

Began  to  walk  in  that  mysterious  light 

Which  doth  reveal  and  yet  transform  ;  which  givcB 

Destiny,  sorrow,  youth,  and  death,  and  life, 

Intenser  meaning  ;  in  disquieting 

Lifts  up  \  a  shining  light :  men  call  it  Love. 

Fair,  modest  eyes  had  she,  the  girl  he  loved  ; 

A  silent  creature,  thoughtful,  grave,  sincere. 

She  never  turned  from  him  with  sweet  caprice, 

Nor  changing  moved  his  soul  to  troublous  hope, 

Nor  dropped  for  him  her  heavy  lashes  low, 

But  excellent  in  youthful  grace  came  up  ; 

And,  ere  his  words  were  ready,  passing  on. 

Had  left  him  all  a-tremble  ;  yet  made  sure 

That  by  her  own  true  will,  and  fixed  intent. 

She  held  him  thus  remote.     Therefore,  albeit 

He  knew  she  did  not  love  him,  yet  so  long 

As  of  a  rival  unaware,  he  dwelt 

All  in  the  present,  without  fear,  or  hope, 

Enthralled  and  whelmed  in  the  deep  sea  of  love, 

And  could  not  get  his  head  above  its  wave 

To  search  the  far  horizon,  or  to  mark 

Whereto  it  drifted  him. 

So  long,  so  long  j 
Then,  on  a  sudden,  came  the  ruthless  Hite, 
Showed  hin\  .1  bitter  truth,  and  brought  hiin  bale 
All  in  the  tolUng  out  of  noon. 

'Twas  thus  : 
Saow-time  was  come  ;  it  had  been  snowing  hard  ; 


23^  LAURANCE. 


Across  the  cliiirch-yard  path  he  walked  ;  the  cjock 

Began  to  strike,  and,  as  he  passed  the  porch, 

Ilalf  turning,  through  a  sense  that  caiue  to  him 

As  of  some  presence  in  it,  he  beheld 

llis  love,  and  she  had  come  for  shelter  there ; 

And  all  her  face  was  fair  with  rosy  bloom, 

The  blush  of  happiness  ;  and  one  held  up 

Her  ungloved  hand  in  both  his  own,  and  stooped 

Toward  it,  sitting  by  her.     O,  her  eyes 

"Were  full  of  peace  and  tender  light :  they  looked 

One  moment  in  the  ungraced  lover's  face 

While  he  was  passing  in  the  snow  ;  and  he 

Received  the  story,  while  he  raised  his  hat 

Retiring.     Then  the  clock  left  off  to  strike, 

And  that  was  all.     It  snowed,  and  he  walked  oii  ; 

And  in  a  certain  way  he  marked  the  snow. 

And  walked,  and  came  upon  the  open  heath  j 

And  in  a  certain  way  he  marked  the  cold, 

And  walked  as  one  that  had  no  starting-placo 

Might  walk,  but  not  to  any  certain  goal. 

And  he  strode  on  toward  a  hollow  part, 
Where  from  the  hillside  gravel  had  been  dug, 
And  he  was  conscious  of  a  cry,  and  went, 
Dulled  in  his  sense,  as  though  he  heard  it  not ; 
Till  a  small  farmhouse  drudge,  a  half-grown  girl. 
Rose  from  the  shelter  of  a  drift  that  lay 
Against  the  bushes,  crying,  "  God  I  O  God, 
O  my  good  God,  He  sends  us  help  at  last." 

Then,  looking  hard  upon  her,  came  to  him 
The  power  to  feel  and  to  perceive.     Her  teeth 
Chattered,  and  all  her  limbs  with  shuddering  failed, 
And  in  hor  threadbare  shawl  was  Avrapped  a  child 
That  looked  on  him  with  wondering,  wistful  eyes. 
"  I  thought  to  freeze,"  the  girl  broke  out  with  tearB  ; 
"  Kind  sir,  kind  sir,"  and  she  held  out  the  cliild, 


LAURANCE.  237 


As  prayinp^  liini  to  take  it ;  and  he  did  ; 

And  {jave  to  lior  the  sliawl,  and  swatlied  his  cliargo 

In  the  foldings  of  his  plaid  ;  and  when  it  thrust 

Its  small  round  face  against  his  breast,  and  felt 

With  small  red  hands  for  warmth,  unbearable 

Pains  of  great  pity  rent  his  straitened  heart. 

For  the  poor  upland  dwellers  had  been  out 

Since  morning  dawn,  at  early  milking-time. 

Wandering  and  stumbling  in  the  drift.     And  now. 

Lamed  Avith  a  fall,  half  crippled  by  the  cold. 

Hardly  prevailed  his  arm  to  drag  heron, 

That  ill-clad  child,  who  yet  the  younger  child 

Had  motherly  cared  to  shield.     So  toiling  through 

The  great  white  storm  coming,  and  coming  yet. 

And  coming  till  the  world  confounded  sat 

With  all  her  fair  familiar  features  gone, 

The  mountains  muffled  in  an  eddying  swirl, 

He  led  or  bore  them,  and  the  little  one 

Peered   from   her  shelter,    pleased  ;    but   oft    would 

mourn 
The  elder,  "  They  will  beat  me  :  O  my  can, 
I  left  my  can  of  milk  upon  the  moor." 
And  he  compared  her  trouble  with  his  own, 
And  had  no  heart  to  speak.     And  yet  'twas  keen  j 
It  filled  her  to  the  putting  down  of  pain 
And  hunger, — what  could  his  do  more? 

He  brought 
The  children  to  their  home,  and  suddenly 
Regained  himself,  and,  wondering  at  hiiiiscif. 
That  he  had  borne,  and  yet  been  dumi)  so  long, 
The  weary  wailing  of  the  girl,  he  paid 
Money  to  buy  her  pardon  ;  heard  them  say, 
"  Peace,  we  have  feanxl  for  you  ;  forget  the  milk, 
It  is  no  matter!  "  and  went  forth  again 
And  waded  in  the  snow,  and  quietly 
Considered  in  his  ]>atience  what  to  do 
With  all  the  dull  remainder  of  his  days. 


2 ',8  LAURA  NCE. 


With  dut'k  he  was  at  home,  and  felt  it  good 

To  hear  his  kindred  talkinp:,  for  it  broke 

A  mocking:  endless  echo  in  his  sonl, 

"  It  is  no  matter !  "  and  he  could  not  choose 

But  mutter,  though  the  weariness  o'ercame 

Jis  spirit,  "Peace,  it  is  no  matter  ;  peace, 

It  is  no  matter  !  "     For  he  felt  that  all 

Was  as  it  had  been,  and  his  father's  heart 

Was  easy,  knowing  not  how  that  same  day 

Hope  with  her  tender  colors  and  delight 

(He  should  not  care  to  have  him  know)  were  dead  ; 

Yea,  to  all  these,  his  nearest  and  most  dear, 

It  was  no  matter.     And  he  heard  them  talk 

Of  timber  felled,  of  certain  fruitful  fields, 

And  profitable  markets. 

All  for  him 
Their  plans,  and  yet  the  echoes  swarmed  and  swam 
About  his  head,  whenever  there  was  pause ; 
"  It  is  no  matter  !  "     And  his  greater  self 
Arose  in  him  and  fought.     "  It  matters  much. 
It  matters  all  to  these,  that  not  to-day 
Nor  ever  they  should  know  it.     I  will  hide 
The  wound  :  ay,  hide  it  with  a  sleepless  care. 
What !  shall  I  make  these  three  to  drink  of  ruo, 
Because  my  cup  is  bitter  ?  "     And  he  thrust 
Himself  in  thought  away,  and  made  his  ears 
Hearken,  and  caused  his  voice,  that  yet  did  seem 
Another,  to  make  answer,  when  they  spoke, 
As  there  had  been  no  snow-storm,  and  no  porch, 
And  no  despair. 

So  this  went  on  awliile 
Until  the  snow  had  melted  from  the  wold, 
And  he,  one  noonday,  wandering  up  a  lane, 
Met  on  a  turn  the  woman  whom  he  loved. 
Then,  even  to  trembling  he  was  moved  ;  his  speech 
Faltored  ;  but,  when  the  common  kindly  words 


LAURANCE.  239 


Of  greeting:  were  all  said,  and  she  passed  on. 

He  could  not  bear  her  sweetness  and  his  pain. 

"  Muriel  !  "  he  cried ;  and  when  she  heard  her  name, 

She  turned.     "You  know  I  love  you,"  he  broke  out. 

She  answered,  •'  Yes,"  and  sighed; 

"O,  pardon  mo. 
Pardon  me,"  quoth  the  lover  ;   "  let  me  rest 
In  certainty,  and  hear  it  from  your  mouth  : 
Is  he  with  whom  I  saw  you  once  of  late 
To  call  you  wife  ?  "  "I  hope  so,"  she  replied  ; 
And  over  all  her  face  the  rose-bloom  came. 
As,  thinking  on  that  other,  unaware 
Pier  eyes  waxed  tender.     When  he  looked  on  her, 
Standing  to  answer  him,  with  lovely  shame, 
Submiss,  and  yet  not  his,  a  passionate, 
A  quickened  sense  of  his  great  impotence 
To  drive  away  the  doom  got  hold  on  him  ; 
He  set  his  teeth  to  force  the  unbearable 
Misery  back  ;  his  wide-awakened  eyes 
Plashed  as  with  flame. 

And  she,  all  overawed 
And  mastered  by  his  manhood,  waited  yet. 
And  trembled  at  the  deep  she  could  not  sound, — • 
A  passion.ate  nature  in  a  storm, — a  heart 
Wild  with  a  mortal  pain,  and  in  the  grasp 
Of  an  immortal  love. 

"  Farewell,"  ho  said. 
Recovering  words  ;  and,  when  she  gave  her  hand, 
"  My  thanks  for  your  good  candor  ;  for  I  feel 
Tliat  it  has  cost  you  something."     Then  the  blush 
"\'et  on  her  face,  she  said  :  "  It  was  your  due  : 
But  keep  this  matter  from  j'our  friends  and  kin. 
We   would   not  have   it  known."     Then,  cold   and 

proud, 
Because  there  leaped  from  under  his  straight  lids, 


:40  LAURANCE. 


And  instantly  was  veiled,  a  keen  surprise, — 

"  He  wills  it,  and  I  therefore  think  it  well." 

Thereon  they  parted  ;  but  from  that  time  forth, 

Whether  they  met  on  festal  eve,  in  field, 

Or  at  the  church,  she  ever  bore  herself 

Proudly,  for  she  had  felt  a  certain  pain  ; 

The  disapproval  hastily  betrayed 

And  quickly  hidden  hurt  her.     "  'Twas  a  grace," 

She  thought,  "  to  tell  this  man  the  thing  he  asked, 

And  he  rewards  me  with  surprise.     I  like 

No  one's  surprise,  and  least  of  all  bestowed 

Where  he  bestowed  it." 

But  the  spring  came  on. 
Looking  to  wed  in  April,  all  her  thoughts 
Grew  loving;  slie  would  fain  the  Avorld  had  waxed 
More  happy  with  her  hajjpiness,  and  oft 
Walking  among  the  flowery  woods  she  felt 
Their  loveliness  reach  down  into  her  heart. 
And  knew  with  them  the  ecstasies  of  growth. 
The  rapture  that  was  satisfied  Avith  light. 
The  pleasure  of  the  leaf  in  exquisite 
Expansion,  through  the  lovely,  longed-for  spring. 

And  as  for  him — (Some  narrow  hearts  there  are 

That  suffer  blight  when  that  they  fed  upon. 

As  something  to  complete  their  being,  fails, 

And  they  retire  into  their  holes  and  pine. 

And  long  restrained  grow  stern.     But  some  there  arc 

That  in  a  sacred  want  and  hunger  rise. 

And  draw  the  misery  home  and  live  with  it. 

And  excellent  in  honor  wait,  and  will 

That  somewhat  good  should  yet  be  found  in  it. 

Else  wherefore  were  tiiey  born  ?) — and  as  for  him, 

lie  loved  her,  but  his  peace  and  welfare  made 

The  sunshine  of  three  lives.     The  cheerful  grange 

Threw  open  wide  its  hospitable  doors 


LAURANCE.  241 


And  drew  in  guests  for  him.     The  garden  flowers, 
Sweet  budding  wonders,  all  were  set  for  him. 
In  him  the  eyes  at  home  were  satisfied, 
And  if  he  did  but  laugh  the  ear  ajji^roved. 

What  then  ?     He  dwelt  among  them  as  of  old, 
And  taught  his  mouth  to  smile. 

And  time  went  on. 
Till  on  a  morning,  when  the  perfect  Spring 
Rested  among  her  leaves,  he,  journeying  home 
After  short  sojourn  in  a  neighboring  town, 
Stopped  at  the  little  station  on  the  line 
That  ran  between  his  woods  ;  a  lonely  place 
And  quiet,  and  a  woman  and  a  child 
Got  out.     lie  noted  them,  but,  walking  on 
Quickly,  went  back  into  the  wood,  impelled 
By  hope,  for,  passing,  he  had  seen  his  love, 
And  she  was  sitting  on  a  rustic  seat 
That  overlooked  the  line,  and  he  desired, 
With  longing  indescribable,  to  look 
Upon  her  face  again.     And  he  drew  near. 
She  was  riglit  happy  ;  she  was  waiting  there, 
lie  felt  that  she  was  waiting  for  her  lord. 
She  cared  no  whit  if  Laurance  went  or  stayed, 
But   answered   when   he   spoke,    and    dropped    hiT 

cheek 
In  her  fair  hand. 

And  he,  not  able  yet 
To  force  himself  away,  and  nevermore 
Behold  her,  gathered  blossom,  primrose  flowerb, 
And  wild  anemone,  for  many  a  clump 
Grew  all  about  him,  and  the  hazel-rods 
Were  nodding  with  their  catkins.     But  he  lieard 
The  stopping  train,  and  folt  that  he  must  go  ; 
His  time  was  come.     There  was  naught  else  tu  do 
Or  hope  for.     With  the  blossom  he  drew  nejir, 

16 


242  LAURANCE. 

And  would  have  had  her  take  it  from  his  hand  ; 

But  she,  half  lost  in  thought,  held  out  her  own, 

And  then,  remembering  him  and  his  long  love, 

She  said,  "I  thank  you  ;  pray  you  now  forget, 

Forget  me,  Laurance,"  and  her  lovely  eyes 

Softened ;  but  he  was  dumb,  till  through  the  trees 

Suddenly  broke  upon  their  quietude 

The  woman  and  her  child.     And  Muriel  said, 

"  What  will  you  ?  "    She  made  answer  quick  and  keen, 

*   Your  name,  my  lady  ;  'tis  your  name  I  want. 

Tell  me  your  name."     Not  startled,  cot  displeased. 

But  with  a  musing  sweetness  on  her  mouth, 

As  if  considering  in  how  short  a  while 

It  would  be  changed,  she  lifted  up  her  face 

And  gave  it,  and  the  little  child  drew  near 

And  pulled  her  gown,  and  prayed  her  for  the  flowers. 

Then  Laurence,  not  content  to  leave  them  so. 

Not  yet  to  wait  the  coming  lover,  spoke  : 

"  Your  errand  with  this  lady  ?  " — "  And  your  right 

To  ask  it?  "  she  broke  out  with  sudden  heat 

And  passion  :  "  What  is  that  to  you  ?    Poor  child  I 

Madam  I  "     And  Muriel  lifted  up  her  face 

And  looked, — they  looked  into  each  other's  eyes. 

"  That  man  who   comes,"  the   clear-voiced   woman 

cried, — 
'•'  That  man  with  whom  you  think  to  wed  so  soon,— 
You  must  not  heed  him.     What  I  the  world  is  full 
Uf  men,  and  some  are  -j^ood,  and  most,  God  knows 
Better  than  he, — that  I  should  say  it ! — far 
Better."     And  down  her  face  the  large  tears  ran. 
And  Muriel's  wild  dilated  eyes  looked  up. 
Taking  a  ten-ible  meaning  from  her  words  ; 
And  Laurance  stared  about  him,  half  in  doubt 
if  this  were  real,  for  all  things  were  so  blithe, 
And  soft  air  tossed  the  little  flov/ei-s  about  \ 
The  child  was  singing,  and  the  black-birds  piped, 


LAURA  NCR.  243 


Glati  in  fair  sunshine.     And  the  women  both 
Were  quiet,  gazing  in  each  other's  eyes. 

He  found  his  voice,  and  spoke  :  "This  is  not  well, 
Though  whom  you  speali  of  should  have  done  yoTJ 

wrong ; 
A  man  that  could  desert  and  plan  to  wed 
Will  not  his  purpose  yield  to  God  and  right. 
Only  to  law.     You,  whom  I  pity  so  much. 
If  you  be  come  this  day  to  urge  a  claim, 
You  will  not  tell  me  that  your  claim  will  hold  I 
'Tis  only,  if  I  read  aright,  the  old, 
Sorrowful,  hateful  story  I  " 

Muriel  sighoc?. 
With  a  dull  patience  that  he  marvelled  at : 
"  Be  plain  with  me.     I  know  not  what  to  think, 
Unless  you  are  his  wife.     Are  j'^ou  his  wife  ? 
Be  plain  with  me."     And  all  too  quietly, 
With  running  down  of  tears,  the  answer  came, 
"  Ay,  madam,  ay  I  the  worse  for  him  and  me." 
Then  Muriel  heard  her  lover's  foot  anear. 
And  cried  upon  him  with  a  bitter  cry. 
Sharp  and  despairing.     And  those  two  stood  back, 
With  such  affright  and  violent  anger  stirred, 
ne  broke  from  out  the  thicket  to  her  side, 
Not  knowing.     But,  her  hands  before  her  face, 
She  sat ;  and,  stepping  close,  that  woman  came 
And  faced  him.     Then  said  Muriel,  "  O  my  heart, 
Herbert !  " — and  he  Avas  dumb,  and  ground  his  teeth. 
And  lifted  up  his  nand  and  looked  at  it. 
And  at  the  woman ;  but  a  man  was  there 
Who  whirled  her  from  her  place,  and  thrust  himself 
Between  them  ;  he  was  strong, — a  stalwart  man  : 
And  Herbert,  thinking  on  it,  knew  his  name.        [strive 
"  What  good,"  quoth  he,  "  though  you  and  I  should 
And  wrestle  all  this  April  day  ?     A  word, 
And  not  a  blow,  is  what  these  women  want ; 


244  LAURA  NCR. 


Blaster  yourself,  and  say  it."     But  he,  weak 

With  passion  and  gjeat  anguish,  flung  himself 

Upon  the  seat  and  cried,  "  O  lost,  iny  love  I 

O  Muriel,  Muriel  1  "     And  the  woman  spoke, 

"  Sir,  'twas  an  evil  day  you  Aved  with  me  3 

And  you  were  young ;  I  know  it,  sir,  right  well. 

Sir,  I  have  worked ;  I  have  not  troubled  you, 

Not  for  myself,  not  for  your  child.     I  know 

We  are  notequal."    "  Hold  !  "  he  cried  ;  "  have  done  ; 

Your  still,  tame  words  are  worse  than  hate  or  scorn. 

Get  from  me !  Ay,  my  wife,  my  Avife,  indeed  ! 

All's  done.     You  hear  it,  Muriel ;  if  you  can, 

0  sweet,  forgive  mie." 

Then  the  woman  movci! 
Slowly  away  ;  her  little  singing  child 
Went  in  her  wake  ;  and  Muriel  dropped  her  hands, 
And  sat  before  these  two  that  loved  her  so, 
Mute  and  unheeding.     There  were  angry  words, 
She  knew,  but  yet  she  could  not  hear  the  words  ; 
And  afterAvards  the  man  she  loved  stooped  down 
And  kissed  her  forehead  once,  and  then  withdrew 
To  look  at  her,  and  with  a  gesture  pray 
Her  pardon.     And  she  tried  to  speak,  but  failed. 
And  presently,  and  soon,  O, — ^he  was  gone. 

She  heard  him  go,  and  Laurance,  still  as  stone. 
Remained  beside  her  ;  and  she  put  her  hand 
Before  her  face  again,  and  afterward 
She  heard  a  voice,  as  if,  a  long  way  off, 
Some  one  entreated,  but  she  could  not  heed. 
Thereon  he  drew  her  hand  away,  and  raised 
Her  passive  from  her  seat.     So  tlien  she  knew 
That  he  would  have  her  go  Avith  him,  go  homo,^ 
It  was  not  far  to  go, — a  dreary  home. 
A  crippled  aunt,  of  birth  and  lineage  high, 
Had,  in  her  youth,  and  for  a  place  and  liome, 
Married  the  stern  old  rector ;  and  the  giri 


LAURANCE.  24^ 


Dwelt  with  them :  she  was  orphaned, — had  no  kin 

Nearer  than  they.     And  Laurance  brought  her  in, 

And  spared  to  her  the  teUing  of  this  woe. 

He  sought  her  kindred  where  they  sat  apart, 

And  laid  before  them  ail  the  cruel  thing, 

As  he  had  seen  it.     After,  he  retired  ; 

And  restless,  and  not  master  of  himself, 

lie  day  and  night  haunted  the  rectory  lanes  \ 

And  all  things,  even  to  the  spreading  out 

Of  leaves,  their  flickering  shadows  on  the  ground, 

Or  sailing  of  the  slow,  white  cloud,  or  peace 

And  glory  and  great  light  on  mountain  heads, — 

All  things  were  leagued  against  him,  niuistered 

By  likeness  or  by  contrast  to  his  love. 

But  what  was  that  to  Murii>!,  though  her  peace 
He  would  have  purchased  for  her  with  all  prayerSj, 
And  costly,  passionate,  despairing  tears  ? 
O,  what  to  her  that  he  should  find  it  worse 
To  bear  her  life's  undoing  than  his  own  ? 

She  let  him  see  her,  and  she  made  no  moan, 

But  talked  full  calmly  of  indifferent  things. 

Which  when  he  heard,  and  marked  the  faded  eyes 

And  lovely  wasted  cheek,  he  started  up 

With  "  This  I  cannot  bear !  "  and  shamed  to  feel 

His  manhood  giving  way,  and  utterly 

Subdued  by  her  sweet  patience  and  his  pain, 

Made  haste  and  from  the  window  sprang,  and  paced, 

Battling  and  chiding  with  himself,  the  maze. 

She  suffered,  and  he  could  not  make  her  well 
For  all  his  loving; — he  was  naught  to  her. 
And  now  his  passionate  nature,  set  astir. 
Fought  with  the  pain  that  could  not  be  endured  ; 
And  like  a  wild  thing,  suddenly  aware 
That  it  is  caged,  which  flings  and  bruises  all 
Its  body  at  the  bars,  he  rose,  and  raged 


s4C>  LAURA  NCR. 


Against  the  misery :  tlien  he  made  all  worse 
With  tears.     But  when  he  came  to  her  again, 
Willing  to  talk  as  they  had  talked  before, 
She  sighed,  and  said,  with  that  strange  quietneso, 
"  I  know  you  have  been  crying  :  "  and  she  bent 
Her  own  fair  head  and  wept. 

She  felt  the  cold— 
Tlie  freezing  cold  that  deadened  all  her  life — 
Give  way  a  little  ;  for  this  passionate 
Sorrow,  and  all  for  her,  relieved  her  heart, 
And   brought  some  natural  warmth,  some  natural 
tears. 

III. 

And  after  that,  though  oft  he  sought  her  door. 

He  might  not  see  her.     First  they  said  to  him, 

"  She  is  not  well  ;  "  and  afterwards,   "  Her  wish 

Is  ever  to  be  quiet."     Then  in  haste 

They  took  her  from  the  place,  because  so  fast 

She  faded.     As  for  him, — though  youth  and  strength 

Can  bear  the  weight  as  of  a  world,  at  last 

The  burden  of  it  tells, — he  heard  it  said, 

When  autumn  came,  "  The  poor  sweet  thing  will  die  : 

'i'hat  shock  was  mortal."     And  he  cared  no  more 

To  hide,  if  yet  he  could  have  hidden,  the  blight 

Tiiat  was  laying  waste  his  heart.     He  journeyed  soutb 

To  Devon,  where  she  dwelt  with  other  kin, 

Good,  kindly  women  ;  and  he  wrote  to  them, 

Praying  that  he  might  see  her  ere  she  died. 

So  in  lier  patience  she  permitted  him 

To  be  about  her,  for  it  eased  his  heart ; 

And  as  for  her  that  was  to  die  so  soon, 

Wliat  did  it  signify  ?     She  let  him  weep 

Some  passionate  tears  beside  her  couch,  she  spoke 

Pitying  words,  and  then  they  made  him  go. 


LAURANCE.  247 


It  was  enough,  they  said  ;  her  time  was  short. 
And  he  had  seen  her.     He  had  seen,  and  felt 
The  bitterness  of  death  ;  but  he  went  home. 
Being  satisfied  in  that  great  longing  now. 
And  able  to  endure  what  might  befall. 

And  Muriel  lay,  and  faded  with  the  year  ; 

She  lay  at  the  door  of  death,  that  opened  not 

To  take  her  in  ;  for  when  the  days  once  more 

Began  a  little  to  increase,  she  felt, — 

And  it  was  sweet  to  her,  she  was  so  young, — 

She  felt  a  longing  for  the  time  of  flowers. 

And  dreamed  that  she  was  walking  in  that  wood 

With  her  two  feet  among  the  primroses. 

Then  when  the  violet  opened,  she  rose  up 
And  walked.     The  tender  leaf  and  tender  light 
Did  solace  her  ;  but  she  was  white  and  wan, 
The  shadow  of  that  Muriel  in  the  wood 
Who  listened  to  those  deadly  words. 

And  now 
Empurpled  seas  began  to  blush  and  bloom. 
Doves  made  sweet  moaning,  and  the  guelder-rose 
In  a  great  stillness  dropped,  and  ever  dropped, 
Her  wealth  about  her  feet,  and  there  it  lay, 
And  drifted  not  at  all.     The  lilac  spread 
Odorous  essence  round  her ;  and  full  oft, 
When  Muriel  felt  the  warmth  her  jjulses  cheer, 
She,  faded,  sat  among  the  May-tide  bloom. 
And  with  a  reverent  quiet  in  her  soul. 
Took  back — it  was  His  will — her  time,  and  sat 
Learning  again  to  live. 

Thus  as  she  sat 
Upon  a  day,  she  was  aware  of  one 
Who  at  a  distance  marked  her.     This  again 
Another  day,  and  she  was  vexed,  for  yet 


248  LAUR4N^CE. 


She  longed  for  quiet ;  but  she  heard  a  foot 
Pass  once  again,  and  beckoned  through  the  trees. 
"  Laurance  I  "  And  all  impatient  of  unrest 
And  strife,  ay,  even  of  the  sight  of  them. 
When  he  drew  near,  with  tired,  tired  lips, 
As  if  her  soul  upbraided  him,  she  said; 
Why  have  you  done  this  thing?"     Be  answeied 
her, 
"  I  am  not  always  master  in  the  fight: 
1  could  not  help  it." 

"What!"  she  sighed,  "not  yet  I 
O,  I  am  sorry  ;  '    and  she  talked  to  him 
As  one  Avho  looked  to  live,  imploring  him, — 
"  Try  to  forget  me.     Let  your  fancy  dwell 
Elsewhere,  nor  me  enrich  with  it  so  long  ; 
It  wearies  me  to  think  of  this  your  love. 
Forget  me  1  " 

He  made  answer,   "  I  will  try  : 
The  task  will  take  me  all  my  life  to  learn. 
Or,  were  it  learned,  I  know  not  how  to  live  ; 
This  pain  is  jjart  of  life  and  being  now, — 
It  is  myself  j  but  yet — but  I  Avill  try." 
Then  she  spoke  friendly  to  him, — of  his  home, 
His  father,  and  the  old,  brave,  loving  folk  ; 
She  bade  him  think  of  them.     And  not  her  words, 
But  having  seen  her,  satisfied  his  heart. 
He  left  her,  and  went  home  to  live  his  life, 
And  all  the  summer  heard  it  said  of  her, 
"  Yet,  she  grows  stronger  ;  "  but  when  autumn  camo 
Again  she  drooped. 

A  bitter  thing  it  is 
To  lose  at  once  the  lover  and  the  love  ; 
For  who  receiveth  not  may  yet  keep  life 
In  the  spirit  with  bestowal.     But  for  her, 
This  Muriel,  all  was  gone.     The  man  bhe  loved. 


LAURA  NCR.  249 


Not  only  from  her  present  had  withdrawn, 
But  from  her  past,  and  there  was  no  such  maUc 
There  never  had  been. 


He  was  not  as  one 
Who  takes  love  in,  like  some  SAveet  bird,  and  holds 
The  winged  fluttering  stranger  to  his  breast, 
Till,  after  transient  stay,  all  unaware 
It  leaves  him  :  it  has  flown.     No  ;  this  may  live 
In  memory, — loved  till  death.     He  was  not  vile  ; 
For  who  by  choice  would  part  with  that  pure  bird, 
And  lose  the  exultation  of  its  song  ? 
He  had  not  strength  of  will  to  keep  it  fast, 
Nor  warmth  of  heart  to  keep  it  warm,  nor  life 
Of  thought  to  make  the  echo  sound  for  him 
After  the  song  was  done.     Pity  that  man  : 
His  music  is  all  flown,  and  he  forgets 
The  sweetness  of  it,  till  at  last  he  thinks 
'Twas  no  great  matter.     But  he  was  not  vilo, 
Only  a  thing  to  pity  most  in  man. 
Weak, — only  poor,  and,  if  he  knew  it,  undono. 
But  Herbert  I     When  she  mused  on  it,  her  soul 
Would  fain  have  hidden  him  for  evermore, 
Even  from  herself, — so  pure  of  speech,  so  frank. 
So  full  of  household  kindness.     Ah,  so  good 
And  true!     A  little,  she  had  sometimes  thought, 
Despondent  for  himself,  but  strong  of  faith 
In  God,  and  faith  in  her,  this  man  had  seemed. 

Ay,  he  was  gone  !  and  she  whom  he  had  wed. 
As  Muriel  learned,  was  sick,  was  poor,  was  sad. 
And  Muriel  wrote  to  comfort  her,  and  send. 
From  her  small  store,  money  to  help  her  need, 
With,  *'  Pray  you  keep  it  secret."     Then  the  wiiolo 
Of  the  cruel  tale  was  told. 


250  LAURANCE. 


What  more  ?     She  dieci. 
Her  kin,  profuse  of  thanks,  not  bitterly, 
Wrote  of  the  end.     "  Our  sister  fain  had  seen 
Her  husband  ;  prayed  him  sore  to  come.     But  no. 
And  then  t*he  prayed  him  that  he  would  forgive, 
Madam,  her  breaking  of  the  truth  to  you. 
Dear  madam,  he  was  angry,  yet  we  think 
He  might  have  let  her  see,  before  she  died. 
The  words  she  wanted,  but  he  did  not  write 
Till  she  was  gone, — '  i  neither  can  forgive. 
Nor  would  1  if  1  could.'  " 

"  Patience,  my  heart  I 
And  thif,  then,  is  the  man  1  loved  1  " 

But  yet 
Ue  sought  Ji  lower  level,  for  he  wrote, 
Telling  the  story  with  a  different  hue, — 
Telling  of  freedom.     Uede.sired  to  come, 
"  For  now,"  said  he,  "  O  love,  may  all  be  well." 
And  slie  rose  up  against  it  in  her  soul, 
For  she  desi^ised  him.     And  with  passionate  tears 
Of  shame,  she  wrote,  and  only  wrote  these  words, — 
"  Herbert,  1  will  not  see  you." 

Then  she  drooped 
Again  ;  it  is  so  bitter  to  despise  ; 
And   all  her  strength,    when   autumn    leaves   down 

dropped. 
Fell  from  her.      "  Ah  1  "    she  thought,   "1    rose   up 

once, 
1  cannot  rise  up  now  ;  here  is  the  end." 
Aud  all  ht  r  kinsfolk  thought,  "It  is  the  end." 

Hut  when  that  other  heard,  "  It  is  the*  end," 
His  heart  was  sick,  and  he,  as  by  a  power 
Far  stronger  than  himself,  was  driven  to  her. 
Rea-son  robel.'ed  against  it,  but  his  will 


LAU RANGE.  251 


Required  it  of  him  with  a  craving  strong 

As  life,  and  passionate  though  hopeless  pain. 

She,  when  she  saw  his  face,  considered  him 

Full  quietly,  let  all  excuses  pass 

Not  answered,  and  considered  yet  again. 

"  He  had  heard  that  she  was  sick  ;  what  could  he  do 
But  come,  and  ask  her  pardon  that  he  came  ?  " 
What  could  he  do,  indeed  ? — a  weak  white  girl 
Held  all  his  heartstrings  in  her  small  white  hand  ; 
His  youth,  and  power,  and  majesty  were  hers, 
And  not  his  own. 

She  looked,  and  pitied  him, 
Then  spoke  :  "  He  loves  me  with  a  love  that  lasts. 
Ah  me  I  that  I  might  get  away  from  it, 
Or,  better,  hear  it  said  that  love  is  not. 
And  then  1  could  have  rest.     My  time  is  short. 
1  think,— so  short."     And  roused  against  liimsoli 
In  stormy  wrath,  that  it  should  be  his  doom 
Her  to  disquiet  whom  he  loved,— ay,  her 
For  whom  he  would  have  given  all  his  rest, 
If  there  were  any  left  to  give, — he  took 
Her  words  up  bravely,  promising  once  more 
Absence,  and  praying  pardon  ;   but  some  tears 
Dropped  quietly  upon  her  cheek. 

"  Remain," 
She  said,  "  for  there  is  something  to  be  told, 
Some  words  that  you  must  hear. 

"  And  first,  hear  tliit*: 
God  has  been  good  to  me  ;  you  must  not  think 
That  I  despair.     There  is  a  quiet  time 
Like  evening  in  my  soul.     1  have  no  heart, 
For  cruel  Herbert  killed  it  long  ago. 
And  death  strides  on.     Sit,  then,  and  give  your  mind 
To  listen,  and  your  eyes  to  look  at  me. 


252  LAURA  NCR. 


Look  at  my  face,  Laurance,  how  white  it  is  j; 
Look  at  my  hand, — my  beauty  is  all  gone." 
And  Laurance  lifted  up  his  eyes  ;  he  looked. 
But  answered,  from  their  deeps  that  held  no  doubt. 
Far  otherwise  than  she  had  willed :  they  said, 
"  Lovelier  than  ever." 

Yet  her  words  went  or. 
Cold,  and  so  quiet,  "  I  have  suffered  much, 
And  I  would  fain  that  none  who  care  for  me 
Should  suffer  a  like  pang  that  I  can  spare. 
Therefore,"  said  she,  and  not  at  all  could  blush, 
"  I  have  brought  my  mind  of  late  to  think  of  thisj 
That  since  your  life  is  spoilt  (not  willingly, 
My  God,  not  willingly  by  me),  'twere  well 
Tu  give  you  choice  of  griefs. 

"  Were  it  not  heet 
To  weep  for  a  dead  love,  aril  afterwards 
Be  comforted  the  sooner,  that  she  died 
Remote,  and  left  not  in  your  house  and  life 
Aught  to  remind  you  ?     That  indeed  were  bestio 
But  were  it  best  to  weep  for  a  dead  wife, 
And  let  the  sorroAv  spend  and  satisfy 
Itself  with  all  expression,  and  so  end? 
I  think  not  so  ;  but  if  for  you  'tis  best, 
Then, — do  not  answer  with  too  s\i<lden  words : 
It  matters  much  to  you ;  not  much,  not  much 
To  me, — then  truly  I  will  die  your  wife  ; 
1  will  marry  you." 

What  was  he  like  to  say. 
But,  overcome  with  love  and  tears,  to  choose 
The  keener  sonow, — take  it  to  his  heart. 
Cherish  it,  make  it  part  of  him,  and  watch 
Those  eyes,  that  were  his  light,  till  they  should  cloao? 

lie  answered  her  with  eager,  faltering  words, 

"  1  choose, — my  heart  is  yours, — die  iu  my  arms." 


LAURANCE.  253 


But  was  it  well?    Truly,  at  first,  for  him 

It  was  not  well :  he  saw  her  fade,  and  cried, 

"  When  may  this  be  ?  "     She  answered,  "  When  you 

will," 
And  cared  not  much,  for  very  faint  she  grew. 
Tired  and  cold.     Oft  in  her  soul  she  thought, 
"  If  I  could  slip  away  before  the  ring 
Is  on  my  hand,  it  were  a  blessed  lot 
For  both, — a  blessed  thing  for  him,  and  me." 

But  it  was  not  so  ;  for  the  day  had  come, — 

Was  over  :  days  and  months  had  come,  and  Death, — 

Within  whose  shadow  she  had  lain,  which  made 

Earth  and  its  loves,  and  even  its  bitterness, 

Indifferent, — Death  withdrew  himself,  and  life 

Woke  up,  and  found  that  it  was  folded  fast, 

Drawn  to  another  life  forevermore. 

O.  what  a  waking !     After  it  there  came 

Great  silence.     She  got  up  once  more,  in  spring, 

And  walked,  but  not  alone,  among  the  flowers. 

She  thought  within  herself,  "  What  have  I  done  ? 

How  shall  I  do  the  rest  ?  "     And  he,  who  felt 

Her  inmost  thought,  was  silent  even  as  she. 

•'What  have  we  done?"  she  thought.     But  as  for 

him. 
When  she  began  to  look  him  in  the  face. 
Considering,  "  Thus  and  thus  his  features  are," 
For  she  had  never  thought  on  them  before, 
Sho  read  their  grave  repose  aright.     She  knew 
That  in  the  stronghold  of  his  heart,  held  back, 
Hidden  reserves  of  measureless  convent 
Kept  house  with  happy  thought,  for  her  sake  mute. 

Most  patient  Muriel  I  when  he  brought  her  home. 
She  took  the  place  they  gave  her, — strove  to  please 
His  kin,  and  did  not  fail ;  but  yet  thought  on, 
*'  What  have  I  done  ?  how  shall  I  do  the  rest  ? 
Ah  1  so  contented,  Laurance,  with  this  wife 


254  LAURANCE. 


That  loves  you  not,  for  all  the  stateliness 
And  grandeur  of  your  manhood,  and  the  deepa 
In  your  blue  eyes."     And  after  that  awhile 
She  rested  from  such  thinking,  put  it  by 
And  waited.     She  had  thought  on  death  before : 
But  no,  this  Muriel  was  not  yet  to  die  ; 
And  when  she  saw  her  little  tender  babe, 
She  felt  how  much  the  happy  days  of  life 
Outweigh  the  sorrowful.     A  tiny  thing, 
Whom  when  it  slept  the  lovely  mother  nursed 
With  reverent  love,  whom  when  it  woke  she  fed 
And  wondered  at,  and  lost  herself  in  long 
Rapture  of  watching,  and  contentment  deep„ 

Once  while  she  sat,  this  babe  upon  her  knee, 
ner  husband  and  his  father  standing  nigh, 
About  to  ride,  the  grandmother,  all  pride 
And  consequence,  so  deep  in  learned  talk 
Of  infants,  and  their  little  ways  and  wiles, 
Broke  off  to  say,  "  I  never  saw  a  babe 
So  like  its  father."     And  the  thought  was  new^ 
To  Muriel ;  she  looked  up,  and  when  she  looked, 
Her  husband  smiled.     And  she,  the  lovely  bloom 
Flushing  her  face,  would  fain  he  had  not  known, 
Nor  noticed  her  surprise.     But  he  did  know  ; 
Yet  there  was  pleasure  in  his  smile  and  love 
Tender  and, strong.     lie  kissed  her,  kissed  his  b;.be> 
With  "  Goody,  you  are  left  in  charge,  take  care." 
"  As  if  I  needed  telling,"  quoth  the  dame  3 
And  they  were  gone. 

Then  Muriel,  lost  in  thought. 
Gazed  ;  and  the  grandmother,  with  open  i^ride, 
Tended  the  lovely  pair ;  till  Muriel  said, 
"  Is  she  so  like?    Dear  granny,  get  me  now 
The  picture  that  his  father  has  ;  "  and  soon 
The  old  woman  put  it  in  her  hand. 


LAU RANGE.  255 


The  wife, 
Considering  it  with  deep  and  strange  delight, 
Forgot  for  once  her  babe,  and  looked  and  learned, 

A  month  tor  mastery  and  manful  work, 

A  certain  brooding  sweetness  in  the  eyes, 

A  brow,  the  harbor  of  grave  thought,  and  hair 

teaxon  of  hue.     She  conned ;  then  blushed  again, 

Remembering  now,  when  she  had  looked  on  him, 

The  sudden  radiance  of  her  husband's  smile. 

But  Muriel  did  not  send  the  picture  back  ; 
She  kept  it ;  while  her  beauty  and  her  babo 
Flourished  together,  and  in  health  and  peac^ 
She  lived. 

Her  husband  never  said  tc  her, 
"  Love,  are  you  happy  ?  "  never  said  to  her, 
"  Sweet,  do  you  love  me  ?  "  and  at  first,  wheno'oi' 
They  rode  together  in  the  lanes,  and  paused. 
Stopping  their  horses,  when  the  day  was  hot, 
In  the  shadow  of  a  tree,  to  watch  the  clouds, 
Ruffled  in  drifting  on  the  jagged  rocks 
That  topped  the  mountains, — when  she  sat  by  hinii 
Withdrawn  at  even  while  the  summer  stars 
Came  starting  out  of  nothing,  as  new  made, 
She  felt  a  little  trouble,  and  a  wish 
That  he  would  yet  keep  silence,  and  he  did. 
That  one  reserve  he  would  not  touch,  but  still 
Respected. 

Muriel  grew  more  brave  in  time. 
And  talked  at  ease,  and  felt  disquietude 
Fade.     And  another  child  was  given  to  her. 

"  Now  we  shall  do,"  the  old  great-grandsire  cried 
"  For  this  is  the  right  sort,  a  boy."     "  Fie,  fie," 
Quoth  the  good  dame  ;  "  but  never  heed  you,  love, 
He  thinks  tbem  both  ^is  right  as  right  can  bo." 


2  so  LAURANCE. 


But  Laurance  went  from  home,  ere  yet  the  boy 
V/as  three  weeks  old.     It  fretted  him  to  go, 
But  yet  he  said,  "  I  must :  "  and  she  was  left 
Much  with  the  kindly  dame,  whose  gentle  caro 
Was  like  a  mother's  ;  and  the  two  gov  Id  talk 
Sweetly,  for  all  the  difference  in  their  years. 

But  unaware,  the  wife  betrayed  a  wish 

That  she  had  known  why  Laurance  left  her  thus. 

"  Ay,  love,"  the  dame  made  answer  ;  "  for  he  said, 

'Goody,'  before  he  left,  '  if  Muriel  ask 

No  question,  tell  her  naught ;  but  if  she  let 

Any  disquietude  appear  to  you. 

Say  what  you  know.'  "     "  What  ?  "  Muriel  eaid,  and 

laughed. 
"  1  ask,  then." 

"  Child,  it  is  that  your  old  love, 
Some  two  months  past,  was  here.     Nay,  never  start. 
He's  gone.     He  came,  our  Laurance  met  liim  near  ; 
He  said  that  he  was  going  over  seas, 
*  And  might  I  see  your  wife  this  only  once, 
And  get  her  pardon  ?  '  " 

"  Mercy  1 "  Muriel  cried, 
"But  Laurance  does  not  wish  it?  " 

"  Nay,  now,  nayj" 
Quoth  the  good  dame. 

"  I  cannot,"  Muriel  cried  3 
"  He  does  not,  surely,  think  I  should." 

"  Not  he," 
The  kind  old  woman  said,  right  soothingly. 
"  Does  not  he  ever  know,  love,  ever  do 
What  you  like  best?" 

And  Muriel,  trembling  yet. 
Agreed.     "  1  heard  him  say,"  the  dame  went  on, 


"  For  I  was  with  him  when  they  met  that  day. 
'  It  would  not  be  agreeable  to  my  wife.'  " 

Then  Muriel,  pondering:,—"  And  he  said  no  more? 
Tou  think  he  did  not  add,  '  nor  to  myself  ?  '  " 
And  with  her  soft,  calm,  inward  voice,  the  dame 
Unruffled  answered,  "  No,  sweet  heart,  not  he  : 
What  need  he  care  ?  "  "  And  why  not  ?  "  Muriel  cried , 
Longing  to  hear  the  answer.     "  O,  he  knows, 
He  knows,  love,  very  well :  "—with  that  she  smiled. 
"  Bless  your  fair  face,  you  have  not  really  thought 
He  did  not  know  you  loved  him  ?  " 

Muriel  said, 
"  He  never  told  me,  goody,  that  he  knew." 
"Well,"  quoth  the  dame,  "but  it  may  chance,  my 

dear, 
That  he  thinks  best  to  let  old  troubles  sleep  : 
Why  need  to  rouse  them  ?     You  are  happy,  sure  ? 
But  if  one  asks,  '  Art  happy  ?  '  why,  it  sets 
The  thoughts  a- working.     No,  say  I,  let  lovo. 
Let  peace  and  happy  folk  alone. 

"  He  saidi 
'  It  would  not  be  agreeable  to  my  wife.' 
And  he  went  on  to  add,  in  course  of  time 
That  he  would  ask  you,  when  it  suited  you, 
To  write  a  few  kind  words." 

"Yes,"  Muriel  said, 
"I  can  do  that." 

"So  Laurance  went,  you  see," 
The  soft  voice  added,  "  to  take  down  that  child. 
Laurance  had  written  oft  about  the  child. 
And  now,  at  last,  the  father  made  it  known 
He  could  not  take  him.     He  has  lost,  they  say, 
His  money,  with  much  gambling  ;  now  ho  wants 

17 


258  SONGS  OF  THE  NIGHT  WATCHES. 

To  lead  a  good,  true,  working  life.     He  wrote, 
And  let  this  so  be  seen,  that  Laurance  went 
And  took  the  child,  and  took  the  money  down 
To  pay." 

And  Muriel  found  her  talking  sweet, 
And  asked  once  more,  the  rather  that  she  longed 
To  speak  again  of  Laurance,  "  And  you  think 
Ilo  knows  I  love  him  ?  " 

"  Ay,  good  sooth,  he  knows 
No  fear ;  but  he  is  like  his  father,  love. 
His  father  never  asked  my  pretty  child 
One  prying  question  ;  took  her  as  she  was  ; 
Trusted  her  ;  she  has  told  me  so  :  he  knew 
A  woman's  nature.     Laurance  is  the  same. 
He  knows  you  love  him  ;  but  he  will  not  speak  ; 
1^0,  never.     Some  men  are  such  gentlemen  I  " 


SONGS  OF  THE  NIGHT  WATCHES, 

"WITH   AN  INTRODUCTORY   SONG  OF  EVENING,  AND  A 
CONCLUDING   SONG   OP   THE   EARLY   DAY. 


INTRODUCTORY. 

{Old  English  Manner.) 

APPRENTICED. 

"  CoAiR  out  and  hear  the  waters  shoot,  the  owlet  hoot, 
the  owlet  hoot ; 
Ton  crescent  moon,  a  golden  boat,  hangs  dim  be^ 
hind  the  tree,  O  ! 
The  dropping  thorn  makes  white  the  grass,  O  sweetest 
lass,  and  sweetest  lass  ; 
Come  out  and  smell   the  ricks  of  hay  adown  the 
croft  with  me,  0  1" 


SON'GS  OF  THE  NIGHT  WA TCHES.  SCQ 

«« My  granny  nods  before  her  wheel,  and  drops  her 
reel,  and  drops  her  reel ; 
My  father  with  his  crony  talks  as  gay  as  gay  can 
be,  O  I  ■ 
Sut  all  the  milk  is  yet  to  skim,  ere  light  wax  dim, 
ere  light  wax  dim  ; 
How  can  I  step  adown  the  croft,  my  'prentice  lad, 
with  thee,  O  !  " 

"  And  must  ye  bide,  yet  waiting's  long,  and  love  is 
strong   and  love  is  strong  ; 
And  O !  had  I  but  served  the  timie,  that  takes  so 
long  to  flee,  O  ! 
And  thou,  my  lass,  by  morning's  light  wast  all  in 
white,  wast  all  in  white. 
And  parson  stood  within  the  rails,  a-marrying  mo 
and  thee,  0." 


THE  FIRST  WATCH. 

TIRED. 
I. 

O,  1  "WOULD  tell  you  more,  but  I  am  tired  ; 

For  I  have  longed,  and  I  have  had  my  will  5 
I  pleaded  in  my  spirit,  I  desired  : 

"  Ah  1  let  me  only  see  him,  and  be  still 
All  my  days  after." 

Rock,  and  rock,  and  rock, 
Over  the  falling,  rising  watery  world. 

Sail,  beautiful  ship,  along  the  leaping  main  ; 
The  chirping  land-birds  follow  flock  on  flock 

To  light  on  a  warmer  plain. 
White  as  weaned  lambs  the  little  wavelets  curled, 


260         SONGS  OF  THE  NIGHT  WATCHES. 

Fall  over  in  harmless  play, 

As  these  do  far  away ; 
Sail,  bird  of  doom,  along  the  shimmering  pea. 
All  under  thy  broad  wings  that  overshadow  tlieo. 

II. 

I  am  so  tired, 
If  I  would  comfort  me,  I  know  not  how, 
For  I  have  seen  thee,  lad,  as  I  desired, 
And  I  have  nothing  left  to  long  for  now. 

Nothing  at  all.     And  did  I  Avait  for  thee, 

Often  and  often,  while  the  light  grew  dim, 
And  through  the  lilac  branches  I  could  see, 
Under  a  saffron  sky,  the  purple  rim 
O'  the  heaving  moorland  ?     Ay.     And  then  would 

float 
Up  from  behind — as  it  w^ere  a  golden  boat. 
Freighted  with  fancies,  all  o'  the  Avonder  of  life. 
Love — such  a  slender  moon,  going  up  and  up. 
Waxing  so  fast  from  night  to  night, 
And  swelling  like  an  orange  flower-bud,  bright. 

Fated,  methought,  to  round  as  to  a  golden  cup. 
And  hold  to  my  two  lips  life's  best  of  wine. 
Most  beautiful  crescent  moon, 
Ship  of  the  sky  ! 
Across  the  unfurrowed  reaches  sailing  high. 

Methought  tliat  it  would  come  my  way  full  soon, 
Laden  with  blessings  that  were  all,  all  mine, — 
A  golden  ship,  with  balm  and  spiceries  rife. 
That  ere  its  day  was  done  should  hear  thee  call  mc 
wife. 

III. 

All  over  I  the  celestial  sign  hath  failed  j 

The  orange  llower-bud  shuts  ;  the  ship  hath  sailed, 


SOJVGS  OF  THE  NTGHT  WATCHES.  26? 


And  sunk  behind  the  long  low-lying  hills. 
The  love  that  fed  on  daily  kisses  dieth ; 
The  love  kept  warm  by  nearness  lieth, 
Wounded  and  wan  ; 

The  love  hope  nourished  bitter  tears  distils, 
And  faints  with  naught  to  feed  upon. 
Only  there  stirreth  very  deep  below 
The  hidden  beating  slow, 

And  the  blind  yearning,  and  the  long-drawn  t)r^fs.th 
Of  the  love  that  conquers  death. 

IV. 

Had  we  not  loved  full  long,  and  lost  all  fear 
My  ever,  my  only  dear  ? 
Yes  ;  and  I  saw  thee  start  upon  thy  way, 
So  sure  that  we  should  meet 
Upon  our  trysting-day. 
And  even  absence  then  to  me  was  sweet 
Because  it  brought  me  time  to  brood 
Upon  thy  dearness  in  the  solitude. 
But  ah  I  to  stay,  and  stay, 
And  let  that  moon  of  April  wane  itself  away, 

And  let  the  lovely  May 
Make  ready  all  her  buds  for  June  ; 
And  let  the  glossy  finch  forego  her  tune 
That  she  brought  with  her  in  the  spring. 
And  nevermore,  I  think,  to  me  can  sing  ; 
And  then  to  lead  thee  home  another  bride. 
In  the  sultry  summer-tide, 
And  all  forget  me  save  for  shame  full  soro, 
That  made  thee  pray  me,  absent,  "  See  my  face  co 
more." 

V. 

0  hard,  most  hard  I     But  while  my  fretted  heart, 
Shut  out,  shut  down,  and  full  of  pain. 
Sobbed  to  itself  apart. 
Ached  to  itself  in  vain, 


262  SOA'GS  OF  THE  NIGHT  WA  TCHES. 

One  came  "who  loveth  me 
As  I  love  thee.  .  .  . 
And  let  my  God  remember  him  for  this, 
As  I  do  hope  He  will  forget  thy  kiss, 
Nor  visit  on  thy  stately  head 
Aught  that  thy  mouth  hath  sworn,  or  thy  two  eyee 

have  said.  <,  .  . 
He  came,  and  it  was  dark.     He  came,  and  sighed 
Because  he  knew  the  sorrow, — whispering  low, 
And  fast,  and  thick,  as  one  that  speaks  by  rote  : 
"  The  vessel  lieth  in  the  river  reach, 

A  mile  above  the  beach, 
And  she  will  sail  at  the  turning  o'  the  tide." 
He  said,  "  I  have  a  boat, 
And  were  it  good  to  go. 
And  unbeholden  in  the  vessel's  wake 
Look  on  the  man  thou  lovedst,  and  forgive. 
As  he  embarks,  a  shameful  fugitive." 
Come,  then,  with  me." 

VI. 

O,  how  he  sighed  I     The  little  stars  did  wint, 
And  it  was  very  dark.     I  gave  my  hand, — 
He  led  me  out  across  the  pasture  land. 
And  through  the  narrow  croft, 
Down  to  the  river's  brink. 
When   thou  wast  full  in  spring,   thou  little  sleepy 

thing, 
The  yellow  flags  that  broidered  thee  would  stand 
Up  to  their  chins  in  water,  and  full  oft 
Wk  pulled  them  and  the  other  shining  flowers, 

That  all  are  gone  to-day  : 
Wb  two,  that  had  so  many  things  to  say. 
So  many  hopes  to  render  clear  : 
And  thoj^  are  all  gone  after  thee,  my  dear, — 
Gone  after  those  sweet  hours, 


SONGS  OF  THE  NIGHT  WA  TCHES.  263 

That  tender  light,  that  balmy  rain  ; 
Gone  "  as  a  ■wind  that  passeth  away, 
And  cometh  not  again." 

VII. 

I  only  saw  the  stars, — I  could  not  see 
The  river, — and  they  seemed  to  lie 
And  far  below  as  the  other  stars  were  high. 

I  trembled  like  a  thing  about  to  die  : 
It  was  so  awful  'neath  the  majesty 
Of  that  great  crystal  height,  that  overhung 
The  blackness  at  our  feet, 
Unseen  to  fleet  and  fleet 
The  flocking  stars  among, 
And  only  hear  the  dipping  of  the  oar« 
And  the  small  wave's  caressing  of  the  darksome  shore 

VIII. 

Less  real  it  was  than  any  dream. 
Ah  me  !  to  hear  the  bending  willows  shiver, 
As  we  shot  quickly  fi-om  the  silent  river. 

And  felt  the  swaying  and  the  flow 
That  bore  us  down  the  deeper,  wider  stream, 

Whereto  its  nameless  waters  go  : 
O  I  I  shall  always,  when  I  shut  mine  eyes. 
See  that  weird  sight  again  ; 
The  lights  from  anchored  vessels  hung  j 
The  phantom  moon,  that  sprung 
Suddenly  up  in  dim  and  angry  wise 
From  the  rim  o'  the  moaning  main, 
And  touched  with  elfin  light 
The  two  long  oars  whereby  we  made  our  flight 
Along  the  reaches  of  the  night  ; 
Then  furrowed  up  a  lowering  cloud. 
Went  in,  and  left  us  darker  than  before. 
To  feel  our  way  as  the  midnight  watches  wore, 


264         SONGS  OF  THE  NIGHT  WATCHES. 


And  lie  in  her  lee,  with  mournful  faces  bowed, 

That  should  receive  and  bear  with  her  away 

The  brightest  portion  of  my  sunniest  day, — 

The  laughter  of  the  land,  the  sweetness  of  the  shoro. 

IX. 

And  I  beheld  thee :  saw  the  lantern  fialsh 

Down  on  thy  face  when  thou  didst  climb  the  side. 

And  thou  wert  pale,  pale  as  the  patient  bride 

That  followed  :  both  a  little  sad, 
Leaving  of  home  and  kin.     Thy  courage  glad, 

That  once  did  bear  thee  on, 
That  brow  of  thine  had  lost ;  the  fervor  rash 
Of  unforeboding  youth  thou  hadst  foregone. 
O,  what  a  little  moment,  Avhat  a  crumb 
Of  comfort  for  a  heart  to  feed  upon  1 

And  that  was  all  its  sum  : 

A  glimpse,  and  not  a  meeting, — 

A  drawing  near  by  night. 
To  sigh  to  thee  an  unacknowledged  greeting, 
And  all  between  the  flashing  of  a  light 
And  its  retreating. 

X. 

Then  after,  ere  she  spread  her  wafting  wings. 
The  ship, — and  weighed  her  anchor  to  depart, 
We  stole  from  her  dark  lee,  like  guilty  things  ; 

And  there  was  silence  in  my  heart. 
And  silence  in  the  iipper  and  the  nether  deep. 

O  sleep  I  O  sleep  I 
Do  not  forget  me.     Sometimes  come  and  sweep, 
Now  I  have  nothing  left,  thy  healing  hand 
Over  the  lids  that  crave  thy  visits  bland. 

Thou  kind,  thou  comforting  one  : 

For  I  have  seen  his  face,  as  I  desired, 

And  all  my  story  is  done. 
O,  I  am  tired  1 


SOA'GS  OF  THE  NIGHT  WATCHES.         265 


THE  MIDDLE  WATCH. 


I. 


I  WOKE  in  the  night,  and  the  darlcness  was  heavy 
and  deep ; 
I  had  known  it  was  dark  in  my  sleep, 
And  I  rose  and  looked  out. 
And  the  fathomless  vault  was  all  sparkling,  set  thick 

round  about 
With  the  ancient  inhabiters  silent,  and  wheeling  too 

far 
For   man's   heart,  like   a   voyaging  frigate    to  sail, 
where  remote 
In  the  sheen  of  their  glory  they  float, 
Or  man's  soul,  like  a  bird,  to  fly  near,  of  their  beams 
to  partake. 
And  dazed  in  their  wake, 
Drink  day  that  is  born  of  a  star. 
I  murmured,  "  Remoteness  and  greatness,  how  deep 
you  are  set. 
How  afar  in  the  rim  of  the  whole  ; 
You  know  nothing  of  me,  nor  of  man,  nor  of  earth, 

O,  nor  yet 
Of  our  light-bearer, — drawing  the  marvellous  moons 
as  they  roll, 
Of  our  regent,  the  sun. 
I  look  on  you  trembling,  and  think,  in  the  dark  with 

my  soul, 
"  How  small  is    our  place  'mid  the  kingdoms  and 
nations  of  God : 
These  are  greater  than  we,  every  one." 
And  there  falls  a  great  fear    and  a  dread   cometh 
over,  that  cries, 


266         SONGS  OF  THE  NIGHT  WATCHES. 

"  O  my  hope  I     Is  there  any  mistake  ? 
Did  He  speak?    Did  I  hear?     Did  I  hsten  aright,  if 

He  spake  ? 
Did  I  answer  Him  duly  ?  for  surely  I  now  am  awake, 

If  never  I  woke  until  now." 
And  a   light,  baffl'ng  wind,  that  leads   nowhither, 

plays  on  my  brow. 
As  a  sleep,  I  must  think  on  my  daj%  of  my  path  as 

untrod, 
Or  trodden  in  dreams,  in  a  dreamland  whose  coasts 

are  a  doubt ; 
Whose  countries  recede  from  my  thoughts,  as  they 
grope  round  about. 
And  vanish,  and  tell  me  not  how. 
Be  kind  to  our  darkness,  O  Fashioner,  dwelling  irv 
light. 
And  feeding  the  lamps  of  the  sky ; 
Look  down  upon  this  one,  and  let  it  be  sweet  in  Thy 
sight, 
I  pray  Thee,  to-night. 
O  watch  whom  Thou   madest  to  dwell  on  its   soil, 

Thou  Most  High  ! 
For  this  is  a  world  full  of  sorrow  (there  may  be  but 
one)  ; 

Keep  wat       o'er  its  dust,  else  Thy  children  for  aye 
are  undone, 

For  tills  is  a  world  where  we  die. 


II. 

With  that,  a  still  voice  in  my  spirit  that  moved  and 

that  yearned 
(There  fell  a  great  calm  while  it  spake), 
I  had  heard  it  erewhile,  but  the  noises  of  life  are  so 

loud. 
That  sometimes  it  dies  in  the  cry  of  the  street  and 

the  cro  wd : 


SONGS  OF  THE  NIGHT  WA  TCHES.  2C7 


To  the  simple  it  cometh, — the  child,  or  nsleep,   or 

awake. 
And  they  know  not  from  whence  ;  of  its  nature  the 

wise  never  learned 
By  his  wisdom  ;  its  secret  the  worker  ne'er  earned 
By  his  toil ;  and  the  rich  among  men  never  bought 
with  his  gold  ; 
Nor  the  times  of  its  visiting  monarchs  controlled, 

Nor  the  jester  put  down  with  his  jeers 
(For  it  moves  where  it  will) ,  nor  its  season  tho 
aged  discerned 
By  thought,  in  the  ripeness  of  years. 

O  elder  than  reason,  and  stronger  than  will  J 
A  voice,  when  the  dark  world  is  still : 

Yi  hence  cometh  it  ?     Father  Immortal,  Thou  know- 

est !  and  we, — 
We  are  sure  of  that  witness,  that  sense  which  is  sent 

us  of  Thee  ; 
For  it  moves,  and  it  yearns  in  its  fellowship  mighty 

and  dread, 
And  let  down  to  our  hearts  it  is  touched  by  the  teari 

that  we  shed  ; 
It  is  more  than  all  meanings,  and  over  all  strife  ; 
On  its  tongue  are  the  laws  of  our  life, 
And  it  counts  up  the  times  of  the  dead. 

III. 

I  will  fear  you,  O  stars,  never  more. 
3  have  felt  it  I     Go  on,  while  the  world  is  asleep, 
Golden  islands,  fast  moored  in  God's  infinite  deep. 
Hark,  hark  to  the  words  of  sweet  fashion,  the  harp- 

ings  of  yore ! 
How  they  sang  to  Him,  seer  and  saint,  in  the  faraway 
lands  : 
"  The  heavens  are  the  work  of  Thy  hands  ; 


SC)B         SOA-GS  OF  TFTR  NTGHT  WA  TCHES. 


They  shall  perish,  but  Thou  shalt  endure  ; 
Yea,  they  all  shall  wax  old, — 
Cut  Thy  throne  is  established,  O  God,  and  Thy  years 
are  made  sure ; 
They  jshall  perish,  but  Thou  shalt  endure, — 
They  shall  pass  like  a  tale  that  is  told." 

Doth  He  answer,  the  Ancient  of  Days  ? 
Will  He  speak  in  the  tongue  and  the  fashion  of 
men  ? 
(Hist  I  hist  I  while  the  heaven-hung  multitudes  sliine 

in  His  praise, 
His  language  of  old.)     Nay,  He  spoke  with  them  first ; 
it  was  then 
They  lifted  their  eyes  to  His  throne : 
"  They  shall  call  on  Me,  '  Thou  art  our  Father,  our 

God,  Thou  alone  I ' 
For  I  made  them,  I  led  them  in  deserts  and  desolate 
ways  ; 
I  have  found  them  a  Ransom  Divine  ; 
I  have  loved  them  with  love  everlasting,  the  children 
of  men ; 
1  Bwear  by  Myself,  they  are  Mine." 


THE  MORNING  WATCH. 


;> 


THK   COMI^fG   IN    OF   THK   "  MKRMAIDKN. 

Thk  moon  is  bleached  as  white  as  wool, 

And  just  dropping  under  ; 
Every  star  is  gone  but  three, 

And  they  hang  far  asunder, — 
There's  a  sea-ghost  all  in  gray, 

A  tall  shape  of  v/onder  I 


SOATGS  OF  THE   NTGHT  WATCHES.  269 

I  am  not  satisfied  with  sleep, — 
The  night  is  not  ended.  ,' 

But  look  how  the  sea-ghost  comes. 
With  wan  skirts  extended, 

Stealing  up  in  this  weird  hour, 

When  light  and  dark  are  blendod.  ^ 

A  vessel  I     To  the  old  pier  end 

Her  happy  course  she's  keeping  ; 
I  heard  them  name  her  yesterday  : 

Some  were  pale  with  weeping  ; 
Some  with  their  heart-hunger  sighed  ; 

She's  in, — and  they  are  sleeping, 

O  !  now  with  fancied  greetings  blest, 

They  comfort  their  long  aching : 
The  sea  of  sleep  hath  borne  to  them 

What  would  not  come  with  waking, 
And  the  dreams  shall  most  be  true 

In  their  blissful  breaking. 

The  stars  are  gone,  the  rose-bloom  comes, — • 

No  blush  of  maid  is  sweeter  ; 
The  red  sun,  half  way  out  of  bed. 

Shall  be  the  first  to  greet  her. 
None  tell  the  news,  yet  sleepers  wake, 

And  rise,  and  run  to  meet  her. 

Their  lost  they  have,  they  hold  ;  from  pain 

A  keener  bliss  they  borroAV. 
How  natural  is  joy,  my  heart  I 

How  easy  after  sorrow  ! 
For  once,  the  best  is  come  that  hopo 

Promised  them  "  to-morrow." 


370         SONGS  OF  THE  NTGHT  WATCHES. 


CONCLUDING  SONG  OF  DAWN. 
{pid  English  Mariner.) 

A  MORN  OF  MAT. 

All  the   clouds   about  the  sun   lay   up   in   golden 

creases 
(Merry  rings  the  maiden's  voice  that  sings  at  dawn  of 

day)  j 
Lambkins   woke   and   skipped  around  to   dry  their 

dewy  fleeces, 
So  sweetly  as  she  carolled,  all  on  a  morn  of  May. 

Quoth  the  Sergeant,  "  Here  I'll  halt;  here's  wine  of 

joy  for  drinking ; 
To  my  heart  she  sets  her  hand,  and  in  the  strings  doth 

play; 
All  among  the  daffodils,  and  fairer  to  my  thinking, 
And  fresh  as  milk  and  roses,  she  sits  this  morn  of 

May." 

Quoth  the  Sergeant,  "  Work  is  work,  but  any  yo 

might  make  me, 
If  I  worked  for  you,  dear  lass,  I'd  count  my  holiday. 
I'm  your  slave  for  good  and  all,  an'  if  ye  will  but 

take  me, 
Sc  sweetly  as  ye  carol  upon  this  morn  of  May." 

"Medals  count  for  worth,"  quoth  she,  "and  scars 

are  Avorn  for  honor  ; 
But  a  slave  an'  if  ye  be,  kind  wooer,  go  your  way." 
All  the  nodding  daffodils  woke  up  and  laughed  upon 

her. 
O  I  sweetly  did  she  carol,  all  on  that  morn  of  May. 


A  STOR  Y  OF  DOOM.  271 

Gladsome  leaves  upon  the  bough,  they  fluttered  fast 

and  faster. 
Fretting  brook,  till  he  would  speak,  did  chide  the 

dull  delay  : 
"  Beauty  1    when  I  said   a  slave,  I  think  I  meant   a 

master  ; 
So  sweetly  as  ye  carol  all  on  this  morn  of  May. 

"  Lass,  1  love  you!     Love  is  strong,  and  some  men  s 

hearts  are  tender." 
Far  she  sought  o'er  wood  and  wold,  but  found  not 

aught  to  say  ; 
Mounting  lark  nor  mantling  cloud  would  any  counsel 

render, 
Though  sweetly  she  had  carolled  upon  that  morn  of 

May. 

Shy,  she  sought  the  wooer's  face,  and  deemed  tlie 

wooing  mended  ; 
Proper  man  he  was,  good  sooth,  and  one  would  have 

his  way  : 
So  the  lass  was  made  a  wife,  and  so  the  song  was 

ended. 
O  !  sweetly  she  did  carol  all  on  that  morn  of  May. 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 


BOOK   I. 


Ntlotta  said  to  Noah,  "  What  aileth  thee, 

My  master,  unto  whom  is  my  desire. 

The  father  of  my  sons  ?  "     He  answered  her, 

"Mother  of  many  children,  I  have  heard 

The  Voice  again."     "  Ah,  me  !  "  she  saith,  "  ah,  me  ! 

What  spake  it?  "  and  with  that  Niloiya  sighed. 


27"  yi  STORY  OF  DOOM, 


This  when  the  Master-builder  heard,  his  heart 
Was  sad  in  him,  the  while  he  sat  at  homo 
And  rested  after  toil.     The  steady  rap 
O'  the  shipwright's  hammer  sounding  up  the  vale 
Did  seem  to  mock  him  ;  but  her  distaff  down 
Niloiya  laid,  and  to  the  doorplace  went, 
Parted  the  purjjle  covering  seemly  hung 
Before  it,  and  let  in  the  crimson  light 
Of  the  descending  sun.     Then  looked  he  forth, — 
Looked,  and  beheld  the  hollow  where  the  ark 
Was  a-preparing  ;  where  the  dew  distilled 
All  night  from  leaves  of  old  lign  aloe-trees. 
Upon  the  gliding  river ;  where  the  palm. 
The  almug,  and  the  gophir  shot  their  heads 
Into  the  crimson  brede  that  dyed  the  world  : 
And  lo  !  he  marked — unwieldy,  dark,  and  huge — 
The  ship,  his  glory  and  his  grief, — too  vast 
For  that  still  river's  floating, — building  far 
Prom  mightier  streams,  amid  the  pastoral  dells 
Of  shepherd  kings. 


Niloiya  spake  again : 
"  What  said  the  Voice,  thou  well-beloved  man  ?  " 
He,  laboring  with  his  thought  that  troubled  him, 
Spoke  on  behalf  of  God  r  "  Behold,"  said  he, 
"  A  little  handful  of  unlovely  dust 
He  fashioned  to  a  lordly  grace,  and  when 
He  laughed  upon  its  beauty,  it  waxed  warm, 
And  with  his  breath  awoke  a  living  soul. 

"Shall  not  the  Fashioner  command  His  work? 
And  who  am  I,  that,  if  he  whisper,  '  Rise, 
Go  forth  upon  Mine  errand,'  should  reply, 
'  Lord,  God,  I  love  the  woman  and  her  sons, — 
I  love  not  scorning  ;  I  beseech  Thee,  God, 
Have  me  excused.' " 


A  STORY  OP  DOOM.  273 


She  answered  him,  "Tell  on." 
And  he  continuing,  reasoned  with  his  soul  : 
"  What  though  1 — like  some  goodly  lama  sunk 
In  meadow  grass,  eating  her  way  at  ease, 
Unseen  of  them  that  pass,  and  asking  not 
A  wider  prospect  than  of  yellow  flowers 
That  nod  above  her  head — should  lay  me  down, 
And  willingly  forget  this  high  behest, 
There  should  be  yet  no  tarrying.     Furthermore, 
Though  I  went  forth  to  cry  against  the  doom, 
Earth  crieth  louder,  and  she  draws  it  down : 
It  hangeth  balanced  over  us  ;  she  crieth. 
And  it  shall  fall.     O  !  as  for  me,  my  life 
Is  bitter,  looking  onward,  for  I  know 
That  in  the  fulness  of  the  time  shall  dawn 
That  day  :  my  preaching  shall  not  bring  forth  fruit, 
Though  for  its  sake  I  leave  thee.     I  shall  float 
Upon  the  abhorred  sea,  that  mankind  hate, 
With  thee  and  thine." 

She  answered  :  "  God  forbid! 
For,  sir,  though  men  be  evil,  yet  the  deep 
They  dvead.  and  at  the  last  will  surely  turn 
To  Iliro,  and  lie,  long-suffering,  will  forgive. 
And  chide  the  waters  back  to  their  abyss. 
To  cover  the  pits  where  doleful  creatures  feed. 
Sir,  I  am  much  afraid  ;  I  would  not  hear 
Of  riding  on  the  waters  :  look  you,  sir, 
Better  it  were  to  die  with  you  by  hand 
Of  them  that  hate  us,  than  to  live,  ah  me  I 
Rolling  among  the  furrows  of  the  unquietj 
Unconsecrate,  unfriendly,  dreadful  sea." 


He  saith  again  :  "  I  pray  thee,  woman,  peace, 
For  thou  wilt  enter,  when  that  day  appears, 
The  iateful  ship." 

t8 


274  ^  STORY  OF  BOOM. 

"  My  lord,"  quoth  she,  "  I  wiii. 
But  O,  g:ood  sir,  be  sure  of  this,  be  sure 
The  Master  calleth  ;  for  the  time  is  long 
That  thou  hast  warned  the  world  :  thou  art  but  hero 
Three  days  ;  the  song  of  welcoming  but  now 
Is  ended.     I  behold  thee,  I  am  glad  : 
And  wilt  thou  go  again  ?  Husband,  I  say, 
Be  sure  who  'tis  that  calleth  ;  O,  be  sure, 
Be  sure.     My  jnother's  ghost  came  up  last  night, 
Whilst  I  thy  beard,  held  in  my  hands,  did  kiss, 
Leaning  anear  thee,  wakeful  through  my  love, 
And  watchful  of  thee  till  the  moon  went  down. ' 

"  She  never  loved  me  since  I  went  with  thee 
To  sacrifice  among  the  hills  :  she  smelt 
The  holy  smoke,  and  could  no  more  divine 
Till  the  new  moon.     1  saw  her  ghost  come  up  ; 
It  had  a  snake  with  a  red  comb  of  fire 
Twisted  about  its  waist, — the  doggish  head 
Lolled  on  its  shoulder,  and  so  leered  at  me 
'This  woman  might  be  wiser,'  quoth  the  ghost;  > 
'  Shall  there  be  husbands  for  her  found  below, 
When  she  comes  down  to  us  ?     O,  fool  I  O,  fool  I 
She  must  not  let  her  man  go  forth,  to  leave 
Her  desolate,  and  reap  the  whole  world's  scorn, 
A  harvest  for  himself.'     With  that  they  passed." 

He  said :  "  My  crystal  drop  of  perfectness, 

I  pity  thee  ;  it  was  an  evil  ghost : 

Thou  wilt  not  heed  the  counsel  ?  "     "  I  will  not," 

Quoth  she  ;  "  I  am  loyal  to  the  Highest  Him 

1  hold  by  even  as  thou,  and  deem  Him  best. 

Sir,  am  I  fairer  than  when  last  we  met  ?  " 

"  God  add,"  said  he,  "  unto  thy  much  yet  more, 

As  I  do  think  thou  art."     "  And  think  you,  sir," 

Niloiya  saith,  "  that  I  have  reached  the  prime  ?  " 

He  answering,  "  Nay,  not  yet."     "  I  would  'twerebo," 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM.  275 

She  plainetli,  "  for  the  daughters  mock  at  me  : 

Her  locks  forbear  to  grow,  they  say,  so  sore 

She  pineth  for  the  Master.     Look  you,  sir, 

They  reach  but  to  the  knee.     But  thou  art  comOj 

And  all  goes  merrier,  Eat,  my  lord,  of  all 

My  supper  that  I  set,  and  afterward 

Tell  me,  I  pray  thee,  somewhat  of  thy  way  ; 

Else  shall  I  be  despised  as  Adam  was, 

^yho  compassed  not  the  learning  of  his  sons, 

But,  grave  and  silent,  oft  would  lower  his  head 

And  ponder,  following  of  great  Isha's  feet. 

When  she  would  walk  with  her  fair  brow  upraised, 

Scorning  the  children  that  she  bare  to  him." 

♦'  Ay,"  quoth  the  Master  ;   "  but  they  did  amiss 
"When  they  despised  their  father :  knowest  thou  that  ?  " 

"Sure  he  was  foolisher,"  Niloiya  saith, 
"Than  any  that  came  after.     Furthermore, 
He  had  not  heart  nor  courage  for  to  rule  : 
He  let  the  mastery  fall  from  his  slack  hando 
Had  not  our  glorious  mother  still  borne  up 
His  weakness,  chid  with  him,  and  sat  apart, 
And  listened,  when  the  fit  came  over  him 
To  talk  on  his  lost  garden,  he  had  sunk 
Into  the  slave  of  slaves." 

"  Nay,  thou  must  think 
How  he  had  dwelt  long,  God's  loved  husbandmaai 
And  looked  in  hope  among  the  tribes  for  one 
To  be  his  fellow,  ere  great  Isha,  once 
Waking,  he  found  at  his  left  side,  and  knew 
The  deep  dehght  of  speech."     So  Noah,  and  thus 
Added,  "  And  therefore  Avas  his  loss  the  more  ; 
For  though  the  creatures  he  had  singled  out 
His  favorites,  dared  for  him  the  fiery  sword 
And  followed  after  him, — shall  bleat  of  lamb 


27^  A  STORY  OF  DOOM.    . 

Console  one  for  the  foregone  talk  of  God  ? 
Or  in  the  afternoon,  his  faithful  dog, 
Fawning  upon  hiui,  make  his  heart  forget 
At  such  a  time,  and  such  a  time,  to  have  heaiJ 
What  he  shall  hear  no  more  ? 


"  O,  as  for  him, 
It  was  for  this  that  he  full  oft  Avould  stop, 
And,  lost  in  thought,  stand  and  revolve  that  deed, 
Sad  muttering,  '  Woman  !  we  reproach  thee  not  j 
Though  thou  didst  eat  mine  immortality; 
Earth,  be  not  sorry  ;  I  was  free  to  choose.' 
Wonder  not,  therefore,  if  he  walked  forlorn. 
Was  not  the  helpmeet  given  to  raise  him  up 
Prom  his  contentment  with  the  lower  things? 
Was  she  not  somewhat  that  he  could  not  rule 
Beyond  the  action,  that  he  could  not  have 
By  the  mere  holding,  and  that  still  aspired       \ 
And  drew  him  after  her?     So,  when  deceived 
She  fell  by  great  desire  to  rise,  he  fell 
By  loss  of  upward  drawing,  when  she  took 
An  evil  tongue  to  be  her  counsellor  : 
•  Death  is  not  as  the  death  of  lower  things, 
Rather  a  glorious  change,  begrudged  of  Heaven, 
A  change  to  being  as  gods,' — lie  from  her  hand, 
Upon  reflection,  took  of  death  that  hour. 
And  ate  it  (not  the  death  that  she  had  dared); 
He  ate  it  knowing.     Then  divisions  came. 
She,  like  a  spirit  strayed  who  lost  the  way. 
Too  venturesome,  among  the  farther  stars. 
And  hardly  cares,  because  it  hardly  hopes 
To  find  the  path  to  heaven ;  in  bitter  wise 
Did  bear  to  him  degenerate  seed,  and  he. 
Once  having  felt  her  upward  drawing,  longed, 
And  yet  asjjired,  and  yearned  to  bo  restored,     , 
Albeit  she  drew  no  more.'' 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM.  277 

"Sir,  ye  speak  well," 
Niloiya  saith,  **  but  yet  the  mother  sits 
Higher  than  Adam.     He  did  understand 
Discourse  of  birds  and  all  four-footed  things, 
But  she  had  knowledge  of  the  many  tribes 
Of  angels  and  their  tongues  ;  their  playful  ways 
And  greetings  when  they  met.     Was  she  not  wise  ? 
They  say  she  knew  much  that  she  never  told, 
And  had  a  voice  that  called  to  her  as  thou." 

"  Nay,"  quoth  the  Master-shipwright,  "  who  am  T 

That  I  should  answer  ?     As  for  me,  poor  man. 

Here  is  my  trouble  :  '  if  there  be  a  Voice,' 

At  first  I  cried,  '  let  me  behold  the  mouth 

That  uttereth  it.'     Thereon  it  held  its  peace. 

But  afterward,  I,  journeying  up  the  hills, 

Did  hear  it  hollower  than  an  echo  fallen 

Across  some  clear  abyss  ;  and  I  did  stop, 

And  ask  of  all  my  company,  '  What  cheer? 

If  there  be  spirits  abroad  that  call  to  us. 

Sirs,  hold  you?  jjeace  and  hear.'     So  they  gave  heed, 

And  one  man  said,  '  It  is  the  small  ground-doves 

That  peck  upon  the  stony  hillocks  ;  '  one, 

'  It  is  the  mammoth  in  yon  cedar  swamp 

That  cheweth  in  his  dream  ;  '  and  one,  '  My  lord, 

It  is  the  ghost  of  him  that  yesternight 

We  slew,  because  he  grudged  to  yield  his  wife 

To  thy  great  father,  when  he  peaceably 

Did  send  to  take  her.'     Then  I  answered,    Pass,' 

And  they  went  on ;  and  I  did  lay  mine  ear 

Close  to  the  earth  ;  but  there  came  up  therefrom 

No  sound,  nor  any  speech  ;  I  waited  long. 

And  in  the  saying,  '  I  will  mount  my  beast 

And  on,'  I  was  as  one  that  in  a  trance 

Beholdeth  what  is  coming,  and  I  saw 

Great  waters  and  a  ship  ;  and  somewhat  spake, 

*  Lo,  this  shall  be  ;  let  liim  that  heareth  itj 


278  A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 

And  seeth  it,  go  forth  to  warn  his  kind, 
For  I  will  drown  the  world.'  " 

Niloiya  saith, 
"  Sir,  was  that  all  that  ye  went  forth  upon  ?  " 
The  Master,  he  replieth,  "  Ay,  at  first, 
That  same  was  all  ;  but  many  days  went  by, 
While  I  did  reason  with  my  heart  and  hope 
For  more,  and  struggle  to  remain,  and  think, 
'Let  me  be  certain  ;  '  and  so  think  again, 
'  The  counsel  is  but  dark  ;  would  I  had  more  ! 
When  1  have  more  to  guide  me,  I  will  go.' 
And  afterward,  when  reasoned  on  too  much. 
It  seemed  remoter,  then  I  only  said, 
'  O,  would  I  had  the  same  again  ;  '  and  still 
1  had  it  not. 

"  Then  at  the  last  I  cried, 
'  If  the  Tinseen  be  silent,  I  will  speak 
And  certify  my  meaning  to  myself. 
Say  that  He  spoke,  then  He  will  make  that  good 
Which  He  hath  spoken.     Therefore  it  were  best 
To  go,  and  do  His  bidding.     All  the  earth 
Shall  hear  the  judgment  so,  and  none  may  cry 
When  the  doom  falls,  "  Thou  God  art  hard  on  us  ; 
We  knew  not  Thou  wert  angry.     O  !  we  are  lost, 
Only  for  lack  of  being  warned." 

"  '  But  say 
That  lie  spoke  not,  and  merely  it  befell 
That  I  being  Aveary  had  a  dream.     AVhy,  so 
lie  could  not  suffer  damage  ;  when  the  time 
Was  past,  and  that  I  threatened  had  not  come,' 
Men  would  cry  out  on  me,  haply  me  kill, 
For  troubling  their  content.     They  would  not  swear 
"God,  that  did  send  this  man,  is  proved  untrue," 
But  rather,  "  I^et  him  die  ;  he  lied  to  us  ; 
God  never  sent  him."     Only  Thou,  great  King, 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM.  279 


Knowest  if  Thou  didst  speak  or  no.     I  leave 
The  matter  here.     If  Thou  wilt  speak  again, 
I  go  in  gladness  ;  if  thou  wilt  not  speak; 
Nay,  if  thou  never  didst,  I  not  the  less 
Shall  go,  because  I  have  believed,  what  time 
I  seemed  to  hear  Thee,  and  the  going  stands 
With  memory  of  believing.'     Then  I  washed, 
And  did  array  me  in  the  sacred  gown, 
And  take  a  lamb." 

"  Ay,  sir,"  Niloiya  sighec^, 
"  1  following,  and  I  knew  not  anything 
Till,  the  young  lamb  asleep  in  thy  two  arms, 
We,  moving  up  among  the  silent  hills, 
Paused  in  a  grove  to  rest ;  and  many  slaves 
Came  near  to  make  obeisance,  and  to  bring 
Wood  for  the  sacrifice,  and  turf  and  fire. 
Then  in  their  hearing  thou,  didst  say  to  me, 
'  Behold,  I  know  thy  good  fidelity. 
And  theirs  that  are  about  us  ;  they  would  guard 
The  mountain  passes,  if  it  wei-e  my  will 
Awhile  to  leave  thee  ; '  and  the  pygmies  laughed 
For  joy,  that  thou  wouldst  trust  inferior  things ; 
And  put  tlieir  heads  down,  as  their  manner  is, 
To  touch  our  feet.     They  laughed,  but  sore  I  wept  j 
Sir,  I  could  weep  now  ;  ye  did  ill  to  go 
If  that  was  all  your  bidding  ;  I  had  thought 
God  drave  thee,  and  thou  couldst  not  choose  but  go." 

Then  said  the  son  of  Lamech,  "  Afterward, 
When  I  had  left  thee,  He  whom  I  had  served 
Met  with  me  in  the  visions  of  the  night, 
To  comfort  me  for  that  I  had  withdrawn 
From  thy  dear  company,     lie  sware  to  me 
That  no  man  should  molest  thee,  no,  nor  toucsh. ' 
The  bordering  of  mine  utmost  field.     I  say, 
When  1  obeyed,  lie  made  Hitj  matters  plaiu. 


28o  A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 


With  whom  could  I  have  left  thee,  but  with  them, 
Born  in  thy  mother's  house,  and  bound  thy  slaves  ?  " 

She  said,  "  I  love  not  pygmies  ;  they  are  naught." 
And  be,    "  Who  made  them  pygmies  ?  "     Then  she 

pushed 
Iler  veiling  hair  back  from  her  round,  soft  eyes, 
And  answered,  wondering,  "  Sir,  my  mothers  did  ; 
Ye  know  it."     And  he  drew  her  near  to  sit 
Beside  him  on  the  settle,  answering,  "  Ay." 
And  they  went  on  to  talk  as  writ  below, 
If  any  one  shall  read  : 

"Thy  mother  did, 
And  they  that  went  before  her.     Thinkest  thou 
That  they  did  v/ell?" 

"  They  had  been  overcome  ; 
And  when  the  angered  conquerors  drave  them  out, 
Behooved  them  find  some  other  way  to  rule, 
They  did  but  use  their  wits.     Hath  not  man  ayo 
Been  cunning  in  dominion,  among  beasts 
To  breed  for  size  or  swiftness,  or  for  sake 
Of  the  white  wool  he  loveth,  at  his  choice  ? 
What  harm  if  coveting  a  race  of  men 
That  could  but  serve,  they  sought  among  their  thralls. 
Such  as  were  low  of  stature,  men  and  maids  ; 
Ay,  and  of  feeble  will  and  quiet  mind  ? 
Did  they  not  spend  much  gear  to  gather  out 
Such  as  I  tell  of,  and  for  matching  them 
One  with  another  for  a  thousand  years  ? 
What  harm,  then,  if  there  came  of  it  a  race> 
Inferior  in  their  wits,  and  in  their  size. 
And  well  content  to  serve  ?  " 

"  '  What  harm  ? '  thou  sayest 
My  wife  doth  ask,  '  What  harm  'i '  " 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM.  281 

"  Your  pardon,  sir. 
I  do  remember  that  there  came  one  day, 
Two  of  the  grave  old  angels  that  God  made, 
When  first  he  invented  life  (right  old  they  were 
And  plain,  and  venerable)  :  and  they  said, 
Rebuking  of  my  mother  as  with  hers 
She  sat,  '  Ye  do  not  well,  you  wives  of  men, 
To  match  your  wit  against  the  Maker's  will, 
A  nd  for  your  benefit  to  lower  the  stamp 
Of  His  fair  image,  which  He  set  at  first 
Upon  man's  goodly  frame  ;  ye  do  not  well. 
To  treat  His  likeness  even  as  ye  treat 
The  bird  and  beast  that  perish.'  " 

"  Said  they  aught 
To  appease  the  ancients,  or  to  speak  them  fair  ?  " 

"  How  know  I  ?     'Twas  a  slave  that  told  it  me. 
My  mother  was  full  old  when  I  was  born. 
And  that  was  in  her  youth.     What  think  you,  sir  ? 
Did  not  the  giants  likewise  ill  ? 

"  To  that 
I  have  no  answer  ready.     If  a  man, 
When  each  one  is  against  his  fellow,  rule, 
Or  unmolested  dwell,  or  uni-eproved, 
Because,  for  size  and  strength,  he  standeth  first. 
He  will  thereof  be  glad  ;  and  if  he  say, 

I  will  to  wife  choose  me  a  stately  njaid. 
And  leave  a  goodly  offspring ;  '  'sooth,  I  think, 
He  sinneth  not ;  for  good  to  him  and  his 
He  would  be  strong  and  great.     Thy  people's  fault 
Was,  that  for  ill  to  others,  they  did  plot 
To  make  them  weak  and  small." 

"  But  yet  they  steal 
Or  take  in  war  the  strongest  maids,  and  such 
As  are  of  highest  stature  ;  ay,  and  oft 


282  A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 

They  fight  among  themselves  for  that  same  cause. 
And  they  are  proud  against  the  King  of  heaven : 
They  hope  in  course  of  ages  they  shall  come 
To  be  as  strong  as  He  " 

The  Master  said, 
"  I  will  not  hear  thee  talk  thereof;  my  heart 
Is  sick  for  all  this  wicked  world.     Fair  wife 
I  am  right  weary.     Call  thy  slaves  to  thee, 
And  bid  that  they  prepare  the  sleeping  place. 
O  would  that  I  might  rest !     I  fain  would  rest. 
And,  no  more  wandering,  tell  a  thanklesti  world 
My  never-heeded  tale  I  " 

With  that  she  called. 
The  moon  Avas  up,  and  some  fev/  stars  were  out 
While  heavy  at  the  heart  he  walked  abroad 
To  meditate  before  his  sleep.     And  yet 
Niloiya  i)ondered.  "  Shall  my  master  go  ? 
And  will  my  master  go  ?     What  'vaileth  it, 
That  he  doth  spend  himself,  over  the  waste 
A-wandering,  till  he  reach  outlandish  folk. 
That  mock  his  warning?     O,  what  'vaileth  it, 
Tliat  he  doth  lavish  wealth  to  build  yon  ark, 
Whereat  the  daughters,  when  they  eat  with  me, 
Laugh?  O  my  heart!  I  would  the  Voice  were  stilled. 
Is  not  he  happy  ?     Who,  of  all  the  earth, 
Obeyeth  like  to  me  ?     Ilave  not  I  learned 
From  his  dear  mouth  to  utter  seemly  words, 
And  lay  the  powers  my  mother  gave  me  by  ? 
Have  I  made  offerings  to  the  dragon  ?  Nay. 
And  1  am  faithful,  when  he  leaveth  me 
Lonely  betwixt  the  peaked  mountain  tops 
In  this  long  valley,  where  no  stranger  foot 
Can  come  without  my  will.     He  shall  not  go. 
Not  yet,  not  yet  !     But  three  days — only  three — 
Beside  me,  and  a-mutteriug  on  the  third, 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM.  283 


'I  have  heard  the  Voice  again.'     Be  dull,  O  dull. 
Mind  and  remembrance  !     Mother,  ye  did  ill ; 
'Tis  hard  unlawful  knowledge  not  to  use. 
Why,  O  dark  mother  !  opened  ye  the  way  ?  " 
Yet  when  he  entered,  and  did  lay  aside 
His  Gostly  robe  of  sacrifice, — the  robe 
Wherein  he  had  been  offering,  ere  the  sun 
Went  down,— forgetful  of  her  mother's  craft, 
She  lovely  and  submiss  did  mourn  to  him  : 
"Thou  wilt  not  go,— I  pray  thee  do  not  go, 
Till  thou  hast  seen  thy  children."     And  he  said, 
"  I  will  not.     I  have  cried,  and  have  prevailed : 
To-morrow  it  is  given  me  by  the  Voice 
Upon  a  four-days'  journey  to  proceed, 
And  follow  down  the  river,  till  its  waves 
Are  swallowed  in  the  sand,  where  no  flesh  dwells. 

"  '  There,'  quoth  the  Unrevealed  '  we  shall  meet. 

And  1  will  counsel  thee  ;  and  thou  shalt  turn 

And  rest  thee  with  the  mother,  and  with  them 

She  bare.'     Now,  therefore,  when  the  morn  appears, 

Thou  fairest  among  women,  call  thy  slaves. 

And  bid  them  yoke  the  steers,  and  spread  thy  car 

With  robes,  the  choicest  work  of  cunning  hands  j 

Array  thee  in  thy  rich  apparel,  deck 

Thy  locks  with  gold ;  and  while  the  hollow  vale 

I  thread  beside  yon  river,  go  thou  forth 

Atweon  the  mountains  to  my  father's  house, 

And  let  thy  slaves  make  all  obeisance  due, 

And  take  and  lay  an  offering  at  his  feet. 

Then  light,  and  cry  to  him,  '  Great  king,  the  son 

Of  old  Methuselah,  thy  son  hath  sent 

To  fetch  the  growing  maids,  his  children,  home.'  " 

"  Sir,"  quoth  the  woman,  "  I  will  do  this  thing, 
So  thou  keep  faith  with  me,  and  yet  return. 


284  A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 

But  will  the  Voice,  think  you,  forbear  to  chide, 
Nor  that  Unseen,  who  calleth,  buffet  thee, 
And  drive  thee  on  ?  " 

Tie  saith,  "  It  will  keep  faith. 
Fear  not.     I  have  prevailed,  for  I  besought, 
And  lovingly  it  answered.     I  shall  rest, 
And  dwell  with  thee  till  after  my  three  sons 
Come  from  the  chase."     She  said,  "  I  let  them  foi  th 
In  fear,  for  they  are  young.     Their  slaves  a,re  few. 
The  giant  elephants  be  cunning  folk  ; 
They  lie  in  ambush,  and  will  draw  men  on 
To  follow, — then  will  turn  and  ti-ead  them  down." 


"Thy  father's  house  unwisely  planned,"  said  he, 
"  To  drive  them  down  upon  the  growing  corn 
Of  them  that  were  their  foes  ;  for  now,  behold. 
They  suffer  while  the  xinwioldy  beasts  delay 
Retirement  to  tlaeir  lands,  and,  meanwhile,  pound 
The  damp,  deep  meadows,  to  a  pulpy  mash  ; 
Or  wallowing  in  the  waters  foul  them  ;   nay. 
Tread  down  the  banks,  and  let  them  forth  to  flood 
Their  cities  ;  or,  assailed  and  falling,  shake 
The  walls,  and  taint  the  wind,  ere  thirty  men. 
Over  the  hairy  terror  piling  stones 
Or  earth,  prevail  to  cover  it." 

She  said, 
"  Husband,  I  have  been  sorry,  thinking  oft 
I  would  my  sons  were  home  ;  but  rjow  so  well 
Jlethinks  it  is  with  me,  that  I  am  fain 
To  wish  they  miyht  delay,  for  thou  wilt  dwell 
With  me  till  after  they  return,  and  thou 
Hast  set  thine  eyes  upon  them.     Then,  ah  me  ! 
I  must  sit  joyless  in  my  place  ;  bereft, 
As  trees  that  suddenly  have  dropped  their  leavea, 
And  dark  as  nights  that  have  no  moon." 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM.  2^< 

She  spake : 
The  hope  o'  the  world  did  hearken,  but  reply 
Made  none.     He  left  his  hand  on  her  fair  locks 
As  she  lay  sobbing;  and  the  quietness 
Of  night  began  to  comfort  her,  the  fall 
Of  far-off  waters,  and  the  winged  wind 
That  went  among  the  trees.     The  patient  hand, 
Moreover,  that  was  steady,  wrought  with  her, 
Until  she  said,  "  What  wilt  thou  ?  Nay,  1  know. 
I  therefore  answer  what  thou  utterest  not. 
Thou  lovest  me  well,  and  not  for  thine  own  will 
Consentest  to  depart.     What  more  ?     Ay,  this  : 
/  do  avow  that  He  which  calleth  thee 
Hath  right  to  call  ;  and  I  do  S7vear  the  Voice 
Shall  have  no  let  of  me  to  do  Its  will." 


BOOK  II. 

Now  ere  the  sunrise,  while  the  morning  star 
Ilung  yet  behind  the  pine-bough,  woke  and  prayed 
The  world's  great  shipwright,  and  his  soul  was  glad 
Because  the  Voice  was  favorable.     Now 
Began  the  tap  o'  the  hammer,  now  ran  forth 
The  slaves  preparing  food.     They  therefore  ate 
In  peace  together ;  then  Niloiya  forth 
Behind  the  milk-white  steers  went  on  her  Avay ; 
And  the  great  Master-builder,  down  the  course 
Of  the  long  river,  on  his  errand  sped, 
And  as  he  went,  he  thought : 

[They  do  not  well 
Who,  walking  up  a  trodden  path,  all  smooth 
With  footsteps  of  their  fellows,  and  made  straight 
From  town  to  town,  will  scorn  at  them  that  wonn 
Under  the  covert  of  God's  eldest  trees 
(Such  as  lie  planted  with  Ili^'.  hand,  and  fed 
With  dew  before  raiu  fell,  till  they  stood  close 


286  A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 

_ — . a 

And  awful ;  drank  the  light  up  as  it  dropt, 

And  kept  the  dusk  of  ages  at  their  roots), — 

They  do  not  well  who  mock  at  such,  and  cry, 

"  We  peaceably,  without  or  fault  or  fear, 

Proceed,  and  miss  not  of  our  end  ;  but  these 

Are  slow  and  fearful :  with  uncertain  pace, 

And  ever  reasoning  of  the  way,  they  oft, 

After  all  reasoning,  choose  the  worser  course, 

And,  plunged  in  swamp,  or  in  the  matted  growth 

Nigh  smothered  struggle,  all  to  reach  a  goal 

Not  worth  their  pains."      Nor  do  they  well  whoso 

work 
Is  still  to  feed  and  shelter  them  and  theirs, 
Get  gain,  and  gathered  store  it,  to  think  scorn 
Of  those  who  work  for  a  world  (no  wages  paid 
By  a  Master  hid  in  light),  and  sent  alone 
To  face  a  laughing  multitude,  whose  eyes 
Are  full  of  damaging  pity,  that  forbears 
To  tell  the  harmless  Jaboi-er,  "  Thou  art  mad."] 

And  as  he  went,  he  thought :     "They  counsel  me, 

Ay,  Avith  a  kind  of  reason  in  their  talk, 

*  Consider  ;   call  thy  sober  thought  to  aid ; 

Why  to  but  one  man  should  a  message  come 

And  why,  if  but  to  one,  to  tliee  ?     Art  thou 

Above  us,  greater,  wiser  ?     Had  Ue  sent 

Uo  had  willed  that  we  should  heed.     Then  since  He 

knoweth 
That  such  as  thou  a  wise  man  cannot  heed. 
He  did  not  send.'     My  answer,  *  Great 'and  wise, 
If  lie  had  sent  with  thunder,  and  a  voice 
Leaping  from  heaven,  ye  must  have  heard  ]  but  so 
Ye  had  been  robbed  of  choice,  and,  lilie  the  bea?ts, 
Yoked  to  obedience.     God  makes  no  men  slaves.' 
They  tell  me,  '  God  is  great  above  thy  thought : 
lie  meddles  nut  ;  and  this  small  world  is  ours, 
Those  many  hundred  years  we  govern  it  ; 


-1 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM.  2&j 

Old  Adam,  after  Eden,  saw  Him  not.' 

Then  I,  '  It  may  be  He  is  gone  to  knead 

More  clay.     But  look,  my  masters  ;  one  of  yon. 

Going  to  warfare,  layeth  up  his  gown, 

His  sickle,  or  his  gold,  and  thinks  no  more 

Upon  it,  till  young  trees  have  waxen  great ; 

At  last,  when  he  returneth,  he  will  seek 

His  own.     And  God,  shall  he  not  do  the  like  ? 

And,  having  set  new  worlds  a-roUing,  come 

And  say,  "  I  will  betake  Me  to  the  earth 

That  I  did  make;  "  and,  having  found  it  vile, 

Be  sorry.     Why  should  man  be  free,  you  wise. 

And  not  the  Master  ?  '     Then  they  answer,  '  Fool  \ 

A  man  shall  cast  a  stone  into  the  air 

Por  pastime,  or  for  lack  of  heed, — but  He  1 

Will  He  come  fingering  of  his  ended  work. 

Fright  it  with  his  approaching  face,  or  snatch 

One  day  the  rolling  Avonder  from  its  ring, 

And  hold  it  quivering,  as  a  wanton  child 

Might  take  a  nestling  from  its  downy  bed. 

And  having  satisfied  a  careless  wish, 

Go  thrust  it  back  into  its  place  again  ?  ' 

To  such  I  answer,  and,  that  doubt  once  mine, 

I  am  assured  that  I  do  speak  aright : 

'  Sirs,  the  significance  of  this  your  doubt 

Lies  in  the  reason  of  it ;  ye  do  grudge 

That  these  your  lands  should  have  another  Lord  : 

Ye  are  not  loyal,  therefore  ye  would  fain 

Your  King  would  bide  afar.     But  if  ye  looked 

For  countenance  and  favor  when  He  came. 

Knowing  yourselves  right  worthy,  would  ye  care, 

With  cautious  reasoning,  deep  and  hard,  to  prove 

That  He  would  never  come,  and  would  your  wrath 

Be  hot  against  a  prophet  ?    Nay,  I  wot 

That  as  a  flatterer  you  would  look  on  him, — 

"  Full  of  sweet  words  thy  mouth  is  :  if  He  come, — 

We  think  not  that  He  will, — but  if  He  come, 


288  A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 

Would  it  might  be  to-morrow,  or  to-night, 
Because  we  look  for  praise."  '  " 

Now,  as  he  went, 
The  noontide  heats  came  on,  and  he  grew  faint; 
But  while  he  sat  below  an  almug-tree, 
A  slave  approached  with  greeting.     "  Master,  hail  !  " 
lie  answered,  "Hail!  what  wilt  thou?"     Then  she 

said, 
"  The  palace  of  thy  fathers  standeth  nigh." 
"  I  know  it,"  quoth  he  ;  and  she  said  again, 
"  The  Elder,  learning  thou  wouldst  pass,  hath  sent 
To  fetch  thee."     Then  he  rose  and  followed  her. 
So  first  they  walked  beneath  a  lofty  roof 
Of  living  bough  and  tendril,  woven  on  high 
To  let  n».  drop  of  sunshine  through,  and  hung 
With  gold  and  purple  fruitage,  and  the  white 
Thick  cups  of  scented  blossom.     Underneath, 
Soft  grew  the  sward  and  delicate,  and  flocks 
Of  egrets,  ay,  and  many  cranes,  stood  up, 
Panning  their  wings,  to  agitate  and  cool 
The  noonday  air,  as  men  with  heed  and  pains 
Had  taught  them,  marshalling  and  taming  them 
To  bear  the  wind  in  on  their  moving  wings. 

So  long  time  as  a  nimble  slave  would  spend 
In  milking  of  her  cow,  they  walked  at  ease  ; 
Then  reached  the  palace,  all  of  forest  trunks, 
Brought  whole  and  set  together,  made.     Therein 
Had  dwelt  old  Adam,  when  his  mighty  sons 
Had  finished  it,  and  up  to  Eden  gate 
Had  journeyed  for  to  fetch  hiin.     "  Here,"  they  said, 
"  Mother  and  father,  ye  may  dwell,  and  here 
Forget  the  garden  wholly." 

So  he  came 
Under  the  doorplace,  and  the  women  sat, 
Each  with  her  finger  on  her  lips  ;  but  he,  ^ 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM.  289 


Having  been  called,  went  oa^  Uiitil  he  reached 
The  jewelled  settle,  wrought  with  cunning  work 
Of  gold  and  ivory,  whereon  they  wont 
To  set  the  Elder.     All  with  sleekest  skins, 
That  striped  and  spotted  creatures  of  the  wood 
Had  worn,  the  seat  was  covered,  but  thereon 
The  Elder  was  not :  by  the  steps  thereof. 
Upon  the  floor,  whereto  his  silver  beard 
Did  reach,  he  sat,  and  he  was  in  his  trance. 
Upon  the  settle  many  doves  were  perched, 
That  set  the  air  a-going  with  their  wings  : 
These  opposite,  the  world's  great  shipwright  stood 
To  wait  the  burden  ;  and  the  Elder  spake  : 
•'  Will  He  forget  me  ?     Would  He  might  forget  I 
Old,  old  !     The  hope  of  old  Methuselah 
Is  all  in  His  forgetfulness.  "     With  that, 
A  slave-girl  took  a  cup  of  wine,  and  crept 
Anear  him,  saying,  "  Taste  ;  "  and  when  his  lip8 
Had  touched  it,  lo,  he  trembled,  and  he  cried, 
•'  Behold,  I  prophesy." 

Then  straight  they  fled 
That  were  about  him,  and  did  stand  apart 
And  stop  their  ears.     For  he,  from  time  to  time. 
Was  plagued  with  that  same  fate  to  prophesy, 
And  spake  against  himself,  against  his  day 
And  time,  in  words  that  all  men  did  abhor. 
Therefore  he,  warning  them  what  time  the  lit 
Came  on  him,  saved  them,  that  they  heard  it  not. 
S>i  while  they  fled,  he  cried  :  "  I  saw  the  God 
Reach  out  of  heaven  His  wonderful  right  hand. 
Lo,  lo  !  He  dipped  it  in  the  unquiet  sea. 
And  in  its  curved  palm  behold  the  ark, 
As  in  a  vast  calm  lake,  came  floating  on. 
Ay,  then.  His  other  hand — the  cursing  hand — 
He  took  and  spread  between  us  and  the  sun, 
And  all  was  black  ;  the  day  was  blotted  out, 
And  horrible  staggering  took  the  frighted  earth. 

19 


290  /I  STORY  OF  DOOM. 

I  heard  the  water  hiss,  and  then  niethinks 

The  crack  as  of  her  sphttinj;.     Did  she  take 

Tlieir  palaces  that  are  my  brotliers  dear, 

And  liuddle  them  with  all  their  ancientry 

Under  into  her  breast?     If  it  Wcis  black, 

How  could  this  old  man  see  ?     There  was  a  noise 

1'  the  dark,  and  Lie  drew  back  His  hand  agtiin. 

I  looked It  was  a  dream, — let  no  niaii  say 

U  was  au^iht  else.     There,  so — the  lit  goes  by. 

Sir,  antl  my  daughters,  is  it  eventide? — 

Sooner  tlian  that,  saith  old  Methuselah, 

Let  the  vulture  lay  his  beak  to  my  green  limbs. 

What  !  art  Thou  envious? — are  the  sons  of  men 

Too  wise  to  please  Thee,  and  to  do  Thy  will  ? 

Methuselah,  he  sitteth  on  the  ground, 

Clail  in  his  gown  of  age,  the  j)ale  white  gown, 

And  goeth  not  forth  to  war  ;  his  wrinkled  hands 

He  claspetli  round  his  knees  :  old,  very  old. 

Would  he  could  steal  from  Thee  one  secret  more — 

The  secret  of  Thy  youth  !     O,  envious  God  1 

We  die.     The  words  of  old  Methuselah 

And  his  prophecy  are  euded." 

Then  the  wive3, 
Beholding  how  he  trembled,  and  the  maids 
And  children,  came  anear,  saying,  "  Who  art  thou 
That  standest  gazing  on  the  Elder  ?    Lo, 
Thou  dost  not  well  :  withdraw  ;  for  it  was  thou 
Whose  stranger  presence  tnnibled  him,  and  brought 
The  fit  of  prophecy."     And  he  did  turn 
To  look  upon  tliem,  and  thiMr  majesty 
And  glorious  Ijeauty  took  away  hi*!  words  ; 
And,  being  pure  among  the  vile,  lie  cast 
In  his  thought  a  veil  of  snow-white  purity 
Over  the  beauteous  throng.     "Thou  dost  not  well," 
They  said.      He  answered  :   "  Blossoms  o'  the  world, 
Fruitful  as  fair,  never  in  watered  gludo, 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM.  29 1 


Where  in  the  youngcest  grass  bhie  cups  push  forth, 

And  the  white  lily  reareth  up  her  head, 

And  purples  cluster,  and  the  saffron  fiov/er, 

Clear  as  a  flaiue  of  sacrifice,  breaks  out, 

And  every  cedar-bough,  made  delicate 

With  climbing  roses,  drops  in  white  and  red, — 

Saw  I  (good  angels  keep  you  in  their  care) 

So  beautiful  a  crowd." 

With  that  they  stamped, 
Gnashed  their  white  teeth,  and,  turning,  fled  and  spat 
Upon  the  floor.     The  Elder  spake  to  him, 
Yet  shaking  with  the  burden,  ''  Who  art  thou  ?  " 
He  answered:  "  I,  the  man  whom  thou  didst  send 
To  fetch  through  this  thy  woodland,  do  forbear 
To  teli  my  name;  thou  lovest  it  not,  great  sire, — 
No,  nor  mine  errand.     To  thy  house  I  spake, 
Touching  their   beauty."      "  Wherefore  didst   thou 

spite," 
Quoth  he,  "  the  daughters  ?  "  and  it  seemed  he  lost 
Count  of  that  prophecy,  for  very  age. 
And  from  his  thin  lips  dropt  a  trembling  laugh. 
"  Wicked  old  man,"  quoth  he,  "  this  wise  old  mau 
I  see  as  'twere  not  I.     Thou  bad  old  man. 
What  shall  be  done  to  thee  ?  for  thou  didst  burn 
Their  babes,  and  strew  the  ashes  all  about, 
To  rid  the  world  of  His  white  soldiers.     Ay, 
Scenting  of  human  sacrifice,  they  fled. 
Cowards!     I  heard  them  winnow  their  great  wingy  " 
They  went  to  tell  Him  ;   but  they  came  no  more. 
The  women  hate  to  hear  of  them,  so  sore 
ThP'y  grudged  their  little  ones  ;   and  yet  no  way 
There  was  but  that.     I  took  it ;  1  did  well." 

With  that  he  fell  to  weeping.     "  Son,"  said  he, 
"  Long  have  1  hid  mine  eyes  from  stalwart  men, 
For  it  is  hard  to  lose  the  majesty 
Aud  pride  and  power  of  manhood :  but  to-day, 


eg*  A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 


Stand  forth  into  the  hgnt,  that  I  may  look 

Upon  thy  strength,  and  think,  EVEX  thus  did  I,  * 

Ijf  THE  GLORY  OF  MY  YOUTH,  MORE  LIKE  TO  GoD 

Than  like  His  soldiers,  face  the  vassal  world." 

Then  Noah  stood  forward  in  his  majesty, 

Shouldering  the  golden  billhook,  wherewithal 

He  wont  to  cut  his  way,  when  tangled  in 

The  matted  hayes.     And  down  the  opened  roof 

Fell  slanting  beams  upon  his  stately  head. 

And  streamed  along  his  gown,  and  made  to  shino 

The  jewelled  sandals  on  his  feet. 

And,  Id, 
The  Elder  cried  aloud  :  "  I  prophesy. 
Behold,  my  son  is  as  a  fruitful  field 
When  all  the  land  are  waste.     The  archers  drew, — 
They  drew  the  bow  against  him  ;   tliey  were  fain 
To  slay  :  but  he  shall  live, — my  son  shall  live. 
And  I  shall  live  by  him  in  the  other  days. 
Behold  the  prophet  of  the  Most  High  Grod : 
Hear  him.     Behold  the  hope  o'  the  world,  what  timo 
She  lieth  under.     Hear  him  ;  he  shall  save 
A  seed  alive,  and  sow  the  earth  with  man. 
O  earth  1  earth  I  earth  !  a  lloating  sliell  of  wood 
Shall  hold  the  remnant  of  thy  mighty  lords. 
Will  t.his  old  Tnan  be  in  it?     Sir,  and  you, 
LJy  dauglitors,  hear  him  I     Lo,  this  white  old  man 
He  sitteth  on  the  ground.     (Let  be,  let  be  : 
Why  dost  Thou  trouble  us  to  make  our  tongue 
Ring  with  al)horr('d  words?)   The  prophecy 
Of  the  Elder,  and  the  vision  that  he  saw, 
They  both  are  ended." 

Then  said  Noah  :  "The  life 
Of  this  my  lord  is  low  for  very  age  : 
Why,  then,  with  bitter  words  upon  thy  tongue, 
Father  of  Lamech,  dost  tliou  anger  Him  ? 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM.  293 


Thou  canst  not  strive  against  Him  now."  He  said  : 

"  Thy  feet  are  toward  the  valley,  where  He  bones 

Bleaching  upon  the  desert.     Did  I  love 

Tlie  litlie  strong  lizards  that  1  yoked  and  set 

To  draw  my  car  ?  and  were  they  not  possessed  ? 

Yea,  all  of  them  were  liars.     I  loved  them  well. 

What  did  the  Enemy,  but  on  a  day 

When  I  behind  my  talking  team  went  forth, 

They  sweetly  lying,  so  that  all  men  praised 

Their  flattering  tongues  and  mild  persuasive  eyes, — 

What  did  the  Enemy  but  send  His  slaves, 

Angels,  to  cast  down  stones  upon  their  heads 

And  break  them  ?     Nay,  I  could  not  stir  abroad 

But  liavoc  came  ;  they  never  crept  or  flew 

Beyond  the  shelter  that  I  builded  here. 

But  straight  the  crowns  I  had  set  upon  their  heads 

Were  marks  for  myrmidons  that  in  tlae  clouds 

Kept  watch  to  crush  them.     Can  a  man  forgive 

That  hath  been  warred  on  thus  ?     I  will  not.     Nay, 

I  swear  it, — I,  tlie  man  Methuselah." 

The  Master-shipwriglit,  he  replied,  "  'Tis  true, 

Great  loss  was  that;  but  they  that  stood  thy  friends, 

The  wicked  spirits,  spoke  upon  their  tongues, 

And  cursed  the  God  of  heaven.     What  marvel,  sir. 

If  He  was  angered  ?  "     But  the  Elder  cried  : 

"  They  all  are  dead, — the  toward  beasts  I  loved  ; 

My  goodly  team,  my  joy,  they  all  are  dead  ; 

Their  bones  lie  bleaching  in  tlie  Avilderness: 

And  I  will  keep  my  wrath  forcvermore 

Against  the  Enemy  that  slew  them.     Go, 

Thou  coward  servant  of  a  tyrant  King, 

Go  down  the  desert  of  the  bones,  and  ask, 

'  My  King,  what  bones  are  these  ?     Methuselah, 

Tiie  white  old  man  that  sitteth  on  the  ground, 

Sendeth  a  message,  "  Bid  them  that  they  live, 

And  let  my  lizards  run  up  every  path 

They  wont  to  take  when  out  of  silver  pipes, 


294  A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 

The  pipes  that  Tuba!  wrought  into  my  roof, 

I  blew  a  sweeter  cry  than  song-bird's  throat 

Ilath  ever  formed  ;  and  while  they  laid  their  heads 

Submiss  upon  my  tliresiiold,  poured  away 

Music  that  welled  byheartsful  out,  and  made 

The  throats  of  men  that  heard  to  swell,  their  breasts 

To  heave  with  the  joy  of  grief ;  yea,  caused  tlie  lips 

To  laugh  of  men  asleep. 

Return  to  me 
The  great  wise  h'zards  ;  ay,  and  them  that  flew 
My  pursuivants  before  me.     Let  me  yoke 
Again  that  multitude  ;  and  here  T  swear 
That  they  shall  draw  my  car  and  me  thereon 
Straight  to  the  ship  of  doom.     So  men  shall  know 
My  loyalty,  that  I  submit,  and  Thou 
Shalt  yet  have  honor,  O  mine  Enemy, 
By  me.     The  speech  of  old  Methuselah.  "  '  " 

Then  Noah  made  answer,  "  By  the  living  God, 

That  is  no  enemy  to  men,  gi-eat  sire, 

I  will  not  take  thy  message  ;  hear  thou  Ilim. 

•  Behold  die  saith  that  suffereth  thee),  behold. 

The  earth  that  I  made  green  cries  out  to  Me, 

Red  with  the  costly  blood  of  beauteous  man. 

I  am  robbtxl,  I  am  robbed  (lie  saith)  ;  they  sacrifice 

To  evil  demons  of  My  blameless  flocks, 

That  I  did  fashion  with  My  hand.     Behold, 

How  goodly  was  the  world  !     I  gave  it  thee 

Fresh  from  its  finishing.     What  hast  thou  done  ? 

I  will  cry  out  to  the  waters,  Co  ye?"  it., 

And  hide  it    mm  its  Father.     Lo,  Mine  eyes 

Turn  from  it  shamed.'  " 

With  that  the  old  man  laughed 
Full  softly.     "  Ay,"  quoth  he,  "a  goodly  world, 
And  we  have  done  with  it  as  we  did  list. 
Why  did  he  give  it  us  ?     Nay,  look  you,  son  : 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM.  295 


Five  score  thpv  were  that  died  in  yonder  waste  ; 

And  if  He  crieth,  '  Renen<-,  lie  reconciled,' 

I  answer,  '  Nay,  my  lizards  ;  '  and  ajrain, 

If  He  will  trouble  uie  in  this  mine  age, 

'  Why  hast  Thou  slain  my  lizards  ?  '    Now  my  speech 

Is  cut  away  from  all  my  other  words, 

Standing  alone.     The  Elder  sweareth  it, 

The  man  of  many  days,  Methuselah." 

Tlien  answered  Noah,  "  My  Master,  hear  it  not; 
But  yet  have  patience  :  "  and  he  turned  himself, 
And  down  betwixt  the  ordered  trees  went  forth, 
And  in  the  light  of  evening  made  his  way 
Into  the  waste  to  meet  the  Voice  of  God. 

BOOK  III. 

Above  the  head  of  great  Methuselah 
There  lay  two  demons  in  the  opened  roof 
Invisible,  and  gathered  up  his  words  ; 
For  when  the  Elder  prophesied,  it  came 
About,  that  hidden  things  were  shown  to  them, 
And  burdens  tliat  he  spake  against  his  time. 

(Rut  never  heard  them,  such  as  dwelt  with  hira  ; 
Their  ears  they  stopped,  and  willed  to  live  at  easo 
In  all  delight ;  and  perfect  in  their  youth. 
And  e-tiong,  disport  them  in  the  perfect  world.) 

Now  these  were  fettered  that  they  could  not  fly, 

For  a  certain  disol>edience  they  had  wrought 

Auainst  the  ruler  of  their  host ;  but  not 

The  less  they  loved  their  cause  ;  and  when  the  feet; 

O'  the  Master-builder  were  no  longer  heard, 

They,  slifiping  to  the  sward,  right  painfully 

Did  follow,  for  the  one  to  the  other  said, 

'■'  Beliooves  our  master  know  of  this  ;  and  us, 

Slujold  he  be  favorable,  he  may  loose 

6'rom  these  our  bonds." 


2<)(>  A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 


And  thus  it  came  to  pass, 
That  while  at  dead  of  night  the  old  dra<ron  lay 
Coiled  in  the  cavern  where  he  dwelt,  the  watch 
Pacing'  before  it  saw  in  middle  air 
A  boat  that  gleamed  like  fire,  and  on  it  came, 
And  rocked  as  it  drew  near,  and  then  it  burst 
And  went  to  pieces,  and  there  fell  therefi-om, 
Close  at  the  cavern's  mouth,  two  glowing  Vialls. 

Now  there  was  drawn  a  curtain  nigh  the  mouth 
Of  that  deep  cave,  to  testify  of  wrath. 
The  dragon  had  been  wroth  with  some  that  served, 
And  chased  them  from  him  ;    and  his  oracles, 
That  wont  to  drop  from  him,  were  stopped,  and  mec 
Might  only  pray  to  him  through  that  fell  web 
That  hung  before  him.     Then  did  whisper  low 
Some  of  the  little  sjjirits  that,  bat-like,  clung 
And  cluster'd  round  the  opening.     "  Lo,"  they  said. 
While  gazed  the  watch  upon  those  glowing  balls, 
"  These  are  like  moons  eclipsed  ;  but  let  them  lie 
Red  on  the  moss,  and  sear  its  dewy  spires, 
Until  our  lord  give  leave  to  draw  the  web, 
And  quicken  reverence  by  his  presence  dread, 
For  he  will  know  and  call  to  them  by  name, 
And  they  will  change.     At  present  he  is  sick. 
And  Avills  that  none  disturb  him."     So  they  lay, 
And  there  was  silence,  for  the  forest  tribes 
Came  never  near  that  cave.     Wiser  than  men, 
Thi'y  fled  the  serpent  hiss  that  oft  by  niglit 
Came  forth  of  it,  and  feared  the  wan  dusk  forms 
That  stalked  among  the  trees,  and  in  the  dark 
Those  whilfs  of  flame  that  wandered  uj)  the  sky 
And  made  the  moonlight  sickly. 

Now,  the  cave 
Was  marvellous  for  beauty,  wrought  with  toola 
Into  tlif^  b"viiig  rock,  for  there  had  worked 
All  cunning  men,  to  cut  on  it  with  sigua 


And  shows,  yea,  all  the  manner  of  mankind. 
The  fateful  apple-tree  was  there,  a  bough 
Bent  with  the  weight  of  him  that  us  beguiled  ; 
And  lilies  of  the  field  did  seem  to  blow 
And  bud  in  the  storied  stone.     There  Tubal  sat, 
Who  from  his  harp  delivered  music  sweet 
As  any  in  the  spheres.     Yea,  more  ; 
Earth's  latest  wonder  on  the  walls  appeared, 
Unfinished,  workmen  clustering  on  its  ribs  ; 
And  farther  back,  within  the  rock  hewn  out, 
Angelic  figures  stood,  that  impious  hands 
Had  fashioned  ;  many  golden  lamps  they  held 
By  golden  chains  dejiending,  and  their  eyes 
All  tended  in  a  reverent  quietude 
Toward  the  couch  whereon  the  dragon  lay. 
The  floor  was  beaten  gold  ;  the  curly  lengthfc 
Of  his  last  coils  lay  on  it,  hid  from  sight 
With  a  coverlet  made  stiff  with  crusting  gera8, 
Fire-opals  shooting,  rubies,  fierce  bright  eyes 
Of  diamonds,  or  the  pale  green  emerald. 
That  changed  their  lustre  when  he  breathed. 

His  head; 
Feathered  with  crimson  combs,  and  all  his  neck. 
And  half-shut  fans  of  his  admired  wings. 
That  in  their  scaly  splendor  put  to  shame 
Or  gold  or  stone,  lay  on  his  ivory  couch 
And  shivered  ;  for  the  dragon  suffered  pain  : 
He  suffered  and  he  feared.     It  was  his  doom, 
The  tempter,  that  he  never  should  depart 
From  the  bright  creature  that  in  Paradise 
He  for  his  evil  purpose  ei-st  possessed, 
Until  it  died.     Thus  only,  spirit  of  might 
And  chiefest  spirit  of  ill,  could  he  be  free. 

But  with  its  nature  wed,  as  souls  of  men 
Are  weddf'd  to  their  clay,  he  took  the  dread 
Of  death  and  dying,  and  the  cowai-d  heart 


29«  A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 

Of  the  beast,  anri  favern  terrors  of  ihe  end 

Sank  him  tliat  habited  within  it  to  draad 

Disunion.     Tie,  a  darU.  Joniinion  erst 

Robeilious.  lav  and  '     nibled,  for  the  flesh 

Daunted  his  imniaterial.     He  was  sick 

And  sorry.     Great  ones  of  the  earth  had  sent 

Their  chief  musicians  for  to  coTiifort  him. 

Chanting  his  praise,  the  friend  of  man,  the  god 

That  gave  them  knowledge,  at  so  great  a  price 

And  costly.     Yea,  the  riches  of  the  mine, 

And  glorious  broidered  A-'ork,  and  woven  gold, 

And  all  things  wisely  made,  they  at  his  feet 

Laid  daily  ;  for  they  said,  "  Tliis  mighty  one. 

All  the  world  wonders  after  him.     He  lieth 

Sick  in  his  dwelling;  he  hath  long  foregone 

(To  do  us  good)  dominion,  and  a  throne, 

And  his  brave  warfare  with  the  Enemy, 

So  much  he  pitieth  us  that  were  denied 

Tlip  gain  and  gladness  of  this  knowledge.     No^ 

Shall  he  be  certified  of  gratitude, 

And  smell  the  sacrifice  that  most  he  loves." 

The  night  was  dark,  but  every  lamp  gave  forth 
A  tender,  lustrous  beam.     His  beauteous  wings 
The  dragon  fluttered,  cursed  awhile,  then  turned 
And  moaned  with  lamentable  voice,  "  I  thirst. 
Give  me  to  drink."     Thereon  stepped  out  in  haste, 
From,  inner  chambers,  lovely  ministrants. 
Young  boys,  with  radiant  locks  and  peaceful  eyes,' 
And  poiired  out  liquor  from  their  cups  to  cool 
His  parched  tongue,  and  kneeling  held  it  nigh 
In  jewelled  basins  sparkling  ;   and  he  lapped, 
And  was  appeased,  and  said,  "  1  will  not  hide 
liOnger  my  much-desired  face  from  men. 
Draw  back  the  web  of  separation."     Then 
With  cries  of  gratulation  ran  they  forth. 
And  liung  it  wide,  und  all  the  watch  fell  low, 


A  STOPV  OF  DOOM  C99 


Each  on  his  face,  as  drunk  with  sudden  J^j-. 
Thus  marked  he,  glowing  on  the  branched  mosG, 
Those  red  rare  moons,  and  let  his  serpent  eyes 
Consider  them  full  suhtly,  "  What  be  these  ?" 
Inquiring:  and  the  little  spirits  said, 
^'  As  we  for  thy  protection  (having  heard 
That  wrathful  sons  of  darkness  walk  to-night. 
Such  as  do  oft  ill-use  us)  clustered  here, 
We  marked  a  boat  afire,  that  sailed  the^kies, 
And  furrowed  up  like  spray  a  billowy  cloud. 
And,  lo,  it  went  to  pieces,  scattering  down 
A  rain  of  sparks  ana  these  two  angry  moons.'' 
Then  said  the  dragon,  "Let  my  guard,  and  you, 
Attendant  hosts,  recede  ;  "  and  tliey  went  back. 
And  formed  about  the  cave  a  widening  ring, 
Then,  halting,  stood  afar  ;  and  from  the  cav<e 
The  snaky  wonder  spoke,  with  hissing  tongue, 
"  If  he  Avere  Tartis  and  Deleisonon, 
Be  Tartis  and  Deleisonon  once  more." 

Then  egg-like  cracked  the  glowing  balls,  and  f.  trth 
Sfarted  black  angels,  trampling  hard  to  free 
Their  fettered  feet  from  out  the  smoking  shell 

And  he  said,  "  Tartis  and  Deleisonon, 

Your  lord  I  am  :  draw  nigh."     "  Thou  art  our  1  rd,' 

They  answered,  and  with  fettered  limbs  full  low 

They  bent,  and  made  obeisance.     Furthermore, 

"  O  fiery  flying  serpent,  after  whom 

The  nations  go,  let  thy  dominion  last," 

They  said,  "  forever."     And  the  serpent  said, 

"  It  shall  :   unfold  your  errand."     They  replied, 

One  speaking  for  a  space,  and  afterward 

His  fellow  taking  uj)  the  word  with  fear, 

And  panting,  "  We  were  set  to  watch  the  mouth 

Of  great  Methuselah.     There  came  to  him 

The  son  of  Lamech  two  days  since."     "  Aty  lo-.d, 


30O  A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 

They  prophesied,  the  Elder  prophesied, 

Unwitting,  of  the  flood  of  waters, — ay, 

A  vision  was  before  liim,  and  the  lands 

Lay  under  water  drowned.     He  saw  the  ark, — 

It  floated  in  the  Enemy's  right  hand." 

"Lord  of  the  lost,  the  son  of  Lamech  fled 

Into  the  wilderness  to  meet  His  voice 

That  reigneth  ;  and  we,  diligent  to  hear 

Aught  that  might  serve  thee,  followed,  but,  forbid 

To  enter,  lay  upon  its  boundary  cliff, 

And  wished  for  morning." 

"  When  the  dawn  was  red 
We    sought   the    man,    we    marked   him  ;    and   he 

prayed, — 
Kneeling,  he  jirayed  in  the  valley,  and  he  said — " 
"  Nay,"  quoth  the  serpent,  "  spare  me,  what  devout 
He  fawning  grovelled  to  the  All-joowerful  ; 
But  if  of  what  shall  hap  he  aught  let  fall, 
Speak  that."     They  answered,  "  He  did  pray  as  one 
That  looketh  to  outlive  mankind, — and  more, 
We  are  certifled  by  all  his  scattered  words. 
That  He  Will  take  from  men  their  length  of  days, 
And  cut  them  off  like  grass  in  its  flrst  flower : 
From  henceforth  this  shall  be." 

That  when  he  heard. 
The  dragon  made  to  the  night  his  moan. 

"  And  more,'" 
They  said,  "  that  He  above  would  have  men  know 
That  He  doth  love  them,  whoso  will  repent, 
To  that  man  He  is  favorable,  yea, 
Will  be  his  loving  Lord." 

The  dragon  cried, 
**  The  last  is  worse  than  all.     ()  man,  thy  heart 
Is  stout  agaitist  His  wrath.     But  will  He  love  ? 
I  heard  it  rumored  in  the  heavens  of  old 


(And  doth  He  love  ?).     Thou  wilt  not,  oanst  not,  stand 
Af^ainst  the  love  of  God.     Dominion  fails  ; 
I  see  it  float  from  mo,  that  long  have  worn 
Fetters  of  flesh  to  win  it.     Love  of  God  ! 
I  cry  against  thee  ;  thou  art  woi'se  than  all." 
They  answered,  "  Be  not  moved,  admired  chief 
And  trusted  of  mankind  ;  "  and  they  went  on, 
And  fi.'d  him  with  the  prophecies  that  fell 
From  the  Master-shipwright  in  his  prayer. 

But  prone 
He  lay,  for  he  was  sick  :  at  every  word 
Prophetic  cowering.     As  a  bruising  blow, 
It  fell  upon  his  head  and  daunted  him, 
Until  they  ended,  saying,  "  Prince,  behold, 
Thy  servants  have  revealed  the  whole  " 

Thereon 
Ho  out  of  snaky  lips  did  kiss  forth  thanks. 
T>ien  said  he,  "  Tartis  and  Deleisonon, 
Pieceive  your  wages."     So  their  fetters  fell  ; 
And  they,  retiring,  lauded  him,  and  cried, 
"  King,  reign  forever."  Then  he  mourned,  "  Amen." 

And  he, — being  left  alone, — he  said  :  "A  light ! 

I  see  a  light, — a  star  among  the  trees, — 

An  angel."     And  it  drew  toward  the  cave, 

But  with  its  sacred  feet  touched  not  the  grass. 

Nor  lifted  up  the  lids  of  its  pure  eyes. 

But  hung  a  s[)an's  length  from  that  ground  pollute, 

At  the  opening  of  tlie  cave. 

And  when  he  looked  i 
The  dragon  cried,  "  Thou  newly-fashioned  thing, 
Of  na.m8  unknown,  thy  scorn  becomes  thee  not. 
Poth  not  thy  Master  suffer  what  thine  eyes 
Thou  countest  all  too  clean  to  open  on  ?" 
But  HtiiJ  it  hovered,  and  the  quietness 


302  A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 


Of  holy  heaven  was  on  the  drooping  lids  ; 
And  not  as  one  that  answereth,  it  let  fall 
The  music  from  its  mouth,  but  like  to  one 
That  doth  not  hear,  or,  hearing,  doth  not  heed, 

"  A  message  :  '  I  have  heard  thee,  while  remote 
I  went  My  rounds  among  the  unfinished  stars.' 
A  message  :  '  I  have  left  thee  to  thy  ways, 
And  mastered  all  thy  vileness,  for  thy  hate 
1  have  made  to  serve  the  ends  of  My  great  love. 
Hereafter  will  I  chain  thee  down.     To-day 
One  thhig  thou  art  forbidden  ;  now  thou  knowest 
The  name  thereof  :  I  told  it  thee  in  heaven, 
When  thou  wert  sitting  at  My  feet.     Forbear 
To  let  that  hidden  thing  be  whispered  forth  : 
For  man,  ungrateful  (and  thy  hope  it  was. 
That  so  ungrateful  he  might  prove),  would  scorn, 
And  not  believe  it,  adding  so  fresh  weight 
Of  condemnation  to  the  doomed  world- 
Concerning  that,  thou  art  forbid  to  speak  ; 
Know  thou  didst  count  it,  falling  from  My  tongue, 
A  lovely  song,  whose  meaning  was  unknown, 
Unknowable,  unbearable  to  thought. 
But  sweeter  in  the  hearing  than  all  harps 
Toned  in  My  holy  hollow.     Now  thine  ears 
Are  opened,  know  it,  and  discern  and  fear, 
Forbearing  speech  of  it  for  evermore." 

So  said,  it  turned,  and  with  a  cry  of  joy, 
As  one  released,  went  up  ;  and  it  was  dawn, 
And  all  boughs  dropped  with  dew,  and  out  of  CJiat 
Came  the  red  sun  and  looked  into  the  cave. 

But  th<>  dragon,  left  a-tremble,  called  to  him. 
From  tlie  nether  kingdom,  certain  of  his  friends, — 
Three  whom  he  trusted,  councillors  accursed. 
A  tluiiidcr-cioud  stooped  low  and  swathed  tlie  pliOO 
In  its  black  swirls,  and  out  of  it  they  rushed.. 


A  STORY  OF  Doonr.  303 

And  liid  them  in  recesses  of  the  cave, 

Because  they  could  not  look  upon  the  sun, 

Sith  liyht  is  pure.     And  Satan  called  to  them*  — 

All  in  the  dark,  in  his  great  rage  he  spake  : 

"  Up,"'  quoth  the  dragon  ;  "  it  is  time  to  work, 

Or  we  are  all  undone."     And  he  did  hiss. 

And  there  came  shudderings  over  land  and  trees, 

A.  dimness  after  dawn.     The  earth  threw  out 

A  blinding  fog,  that  crept  toward  the  cave, 

And  rolled  \\\)  blank  before  it  like  a  veil, — 

A  curtain  to  conceal  its  habiters. 

Then  did  those  spirits  move  upon  the  floor, 

Like  pillars  of  darkness,  and  with  eyes  aglow. 

One  had  a  helm  for  covering  of  the  scars 

That  seamed  what  rested  of  a  goodly  face  ; 

He  wore  his  vizor  up,  and  all  his  words 

Were  hollower  than  an  echo  from  the  hills  : 

lie  was  hight  Make.     And  lo,  his  fellow-fiend 

Came  after,  holding  down  his  dastard  head. 

Like  one  ashamed  :  now  this  for  craft  was  great  ^ 

The  dragon  honored  him.     A  third  sat  down 

Among  them,  covering  with  his  wasted  hand 

Somewhat  that  pained  his  breast. 

And  when  the  flt 
Of  thunder,  and  the  sobbings  of  the  wind, 
Were  lulled,  the  dragon  spoke  with  wrath  and  rage, 
And  told  them  of  his  matters  :   "  Look  to  this, 
If  ye  be  loyal ;  "  adding,  "  Give  your  thoughts, 
And  let  me  have  your  counsel  in  this  need." 

One  spirit  rose  and  spake,  and  all  the  cave 

Was  full  of  sighs,  "  The  words  of  Make  the  Prince, 

Of  him  once  delegate  in  Betelgeux : 

Whereas  of  late  the  manner  is  to  change, 

We  know  not  where  'twill  end  ;   and  now  my  words 

fto  thus :  give  way,  be  peaceable,  lie  still 


304  A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 

And  striv'e  not,  else  the  world  that  we  have  won 
He  may,  to  drive  us  out,  reduce  to  naught. 

*'  For  while  I  stood  in  mine  obedience  yet, 

Steering  of  Betelgeux  my  sun,  behold, 

A  moon,  that  evil  ones  did  fill,  rolled  up 

Astray,  and  suddenly  the  Master  came, 

And  while,  a  million  strong,  like  rooks  they  rose, 

He  took  and  broke  it,  flung  it  here  and  there. 

And  called  a  blast  to  drive  the  powder  forth  ; 

And  it  was  fine  as  dust,  and  blurred  the  skies 

Farther  than  'tis  from  hence  to  this  young  sun. 

Spirits  that  passed  upon  their  work  that  day, 

Cried  out,  '  IIow  dusty  'tis.'     Behooves  us,  then. 

That  we  depart,  as  leaving  unto  Ilim 

This  goodly  world  and  goodly  race  of  man. 

Not  all  are  doomed  :   hereafter  it  may  be 

That  we  find  place  on  it  again.     But  if, 

Too  zealous  to  preserve  it,  and  the  men 

Our  servants,  we  oppose  Him,  He  may  come, 

And,  choosing  rather  to  undo  His  work 

Tlian  strive  with  it  for  aye,  make  so  an  end." 

He  sighing  paused.     Lo,  then  the  serpent  hissed 

In  impotent  rage,   "Depart!  and  how  depart! 

Can  flesh  ])e  carried  down  where  spirits  wonn  ? 

Or  I,  most  miserable,  hold  my  life 

Over  the  airless,  bottomless  gulf,  and  bide 

The  bulfetings  of  yonder  shoreless  sea? 

O  death,  thou  terrible  doom  :  O  death,  thou  dread 

Of  all  that  breathe." 

A  spirit  rose  and  spake: 
*'  Whereas  in  Heaven  is  power,  is  much  to  fear  ; 
For  this  admired  country  we  have  mafred. 
Whereas  in  Heaven  is  love  (and  there  are  days 
When  yet  I  can  r«call  what  love  was  like), 
Is  nangiit  to  frar.     A  threatcMiing  makes  the  whole. 
And  clogged  with  strong  conditions  :   'O,  repent, 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM.  S^S 


Man,  and  I  turn.'     He,  therefore,  powerful  now, 
And  more  so,  master,  that  ye  bide  in  clay, 
Threateneth  that  He  may  save.     They  shall  not  die." 

The  drajron  said,  "  I  tremble,  I  am  sick." 

He  said  with  jiain  of  heart,   "  How  am  I  fallen  \ 

For  I  keep  silence ;  yea,  I  have  withdrawn 

From  haunting  of  His  gates,  and  shouting  up 

Defiance.     Wherefore  doth  He  hunt  me  out 

From  this  small  world,  this  little  one,  that  I 

Have  been  content  to  take  unto  myself, 

I  here  being  loved  and  worshipped  ?    He  knoweth 

How  much  I  have  foregone  ;  and  must  He  stoop 

To  whelm  the  world,  and  heave  the  floors  o'  the  deep, 

Of  purpose  to  pursue  me  from  my  place  ? 

And  since  I  gave  men  knowledge,  must  He  take 

Their  length  of  days  whereby  they  perfect  it  ? 

So  shall  He  scatter  all  that  I  have  stored. 

And  get  them  by  degrading  them.     I  know 

That  in  the  end  it  is  appointed  me 

To  fade.     I  will  not  fade  before  the  time." 

A  spirit  rose,  the  third,  a  spirit  ashamed 

And  subtle,  and  his  face  he  turned  aside : 

"  Whereas,"  said  he,  "  we  strive  against  both  power 

And  love,  behooves  us  that  we  strive  aright. 

Now  some  of  old  my  comrades  yesterday, 

I  met,  as  they  did  journey  to  appear 

In  the  Presence  ;  and  I  said,  '  My  master  lieth 

Sick  yonder,  otherwise  (for  no  decree 

There  stands  against  it)  lie  would  also  come 

And  make  obeisance  with  the  sons  of  (iod.' 

They  answered,  naught  denying.     Tlierefore,  lord, 

Tis  certain  that  ye  have  admittance  yet  ; 

And  what  doth  hinder?     Nothing  but  this  breath. 

Were  it  not  well  to  make  an  end,  and  die, 

And  gain  achiiittance  to  the  King  of  kings  ? 

2U 


3c6  A  STOKY  OF  DOOM. 


What  if  thy  slaves  by  thy  consent  should  take 
And  bear  thee  on  their  wings  above  the  earth, 
And  suddenly  let  fall, — how  soon  'twere  o'er  ! 
We  should  have  fear  and  sinking  at  the  heart ; 
But  in  a  little  moment  we  should  see, 
Rising  majestic  from  a  ruined  heap, 
The  stately  spirit  that  we  served  of  yore." 

The  serpent  turned  his  subtle  deadly  eyes 

Upon  the  spirit,  and  hissed  ;  and,  sick  with  shame. 

It  bowed  itself  together,  and  went  back 

With  hidden  face.     "  This  counsel  is  not  good," 

The  other  twain  made  answer  ;  "  look,  my  lord, 

Whereas  'tis  evil  in  thine  eyes,  in  ours 

'Tis  evil  also  j  speak,  for  we  perceive 

That  on  thy  tongue  the  words  of  counsel  sit, 

Ready  to  fly  to  our  right  greedy  ears. 

That  long  for  them.'     And  Satan,  flattered  thus 

(Forever  may  the  serpent  kind  be  charmed 

With  soft,  sweet  words,  and  music  deftly  played), 

Replied,  "  Whereas  I  surely  rule  the  world. 

Behooves  that  ye  jjrepare  for  me  a  path, 

And  that  I,  putting  of  my  pains  aside. 

Go  stir  rebellion  in  the  mighty  hearts 

O'  the  giants  ;  for  lie  loveth  them,  and  looks 

Full  oft  conjplacent  on  their  glorious  strength. 

He  willeth  that  they  yield,  that  Me  may  spare ; 

But,  by  the  blackness  of  my  loathc'd  don, 

1  say  they  shall  not,  no,  they  shall  not  yield  ; 

Go,  therefore,  take  to  you  some  harmless  guise. 

And  spread  a  rumor  that  I  come.     I,  sick, 

Sorry,  and  aged,  hasten.     1  have  heard 

Whispers  that  out  of  heaven  dropped  unaware. 

I  caught  them  up,  ami  siih  they  bode  men  harm 

I  am  ready  for  to  comfort  thorn  ;  yea,  more. 

To  counsel,  and  I  will  that  they  drive  forth 

The  women,  the  abhorred  of  my  soul  ; 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM.  307 


Let  not  a  woman  breathe  where  I  shall  pass, 
Lest  the  cur^e  falleth,  and  she  bruise  my  head. 
Friends,  if  it  l)e  their  mind  to  send  for  me 
An  army,  and  triumi)hant  draw  me  on 
In  the  golden  ear  you  wot  of,  and  with  shouts, 
I  would  not  that  ye  hinder  them.     Ah,  then 
AVill  I  make  hard  their  hearts,  and  grieve  Him  soro 
That  loves  them,  O,  by  much  too  well  to  wet 
Their  stately  heads,  and  soil  those  locks  of  strength 
Under  the  fateful  brine.     Then  afterward, 
While  He  doth  reason  vainly  with  them,  I 
Will  offer  Him  a  pact :  '  Great  King,  a  pact, 
And  men  shall  worship  Thee,  I  say  they  shall. 
For  I  will  bid  them  do  it,  yea,  and  leave 
To  sacrifice  their  kind,  so  Thou  my  name 
Wilt  suffer  to  be  worshipped  after  Thine.'  " 

"  Yea,  my  lord  Satan,"  quoth  they,  *'  do  this  thing, 
And  let  us  hear  thy  words,  for  they  are  sweet." 

Then  he  made  answer,  "  By  a  messenger 

Have  I  this  day  been  warned.     There  is  a  deed 

1  may  not  tell  of,  lest  the  people  add 

Scorn  of  a  Coming  Greatness  to  their  faults. 

Why  this?     Who  careth,  when  about  to  slay, 

And  slay  indeed,  how  well  they  have  deserved 

Death  whom  he  slayeth  ?     Therefore  yet  is  hid 

A  meaning  of  some  mercy  that  will  rob 

The  nether  world.     Now  look  to  it, — 'Twere  vain, 

Albeit  this  deluge  He  would  send  indeed. 

That  we  expect  the  harvest ;  He  would  yet 

Be  tlie  Master-reaper  ;  for  I  heard  it  said, 

Tliem  that  be  young  and  know  Him  not,  and  them 

That  are  bound  and  may  not  build,  yea,  more,  their 

wives, 
Whom,  suffering  not  to  hear  the  doom,  they  keep 
Joyous  behind  the  curtains,  every  one 
With  maidens  nourislied  in  the  house,  and  baboa 


3o8  A  S7VPV  OF  DOOM. 


And  children  at  her  knees — (then  what  remain  1) 

lie  claimeth  and  will  feather  for  His  OAvn. 

Now,  therefore,  it  were  fjood  by  guile  to  work, 

Princes,  and  sutler  not  the  doom  to  fall 

There  is  no  evil  like  to  love.     I  heard 

Him  whisper  it.     Plave  I  put  on  this  flesh 

To  ruin  His  two  children  beautiful, 

And  shall  my  deed  confound  me  in  the  end, 

Through  awful  imitation  ?     Love  of  God, 

I  cry  against  thee  ;  thou  art  worst  of  all." 


BOOK    IV. 

Now  while  these  evil  ones  took  counsel  strange, 
The  son  of  Lamech  journeyed  home  ;  and.  io  t 
A  company  came  down,  and  struck  the  track 
As  he  did  enter  it.     There  rode  in  front 
Two  horsemen,  young  and  noble,  and  behind 
Wore  following  slaves  with  tent  gear ;  others  led 
Strong  horses,  others  bare  the  instruments 
O'  the  chase,  and  in  the  rear  dull  camels  lagged. 
Sighing,  for  they  were  burdened,  and  they  loved 
The  desert  sands  above  that  grassy  vale. 

And  as  they  met,  those  liorsemen  drew  the  rein, 
And  fixed  on  him  their  grave  untroubled  eyes  ; 
He  in  his  regal  grandeur  walked  alone, 
And  had  nor  steed  nor  follower,  and  his  mien 
Was  grave  and  like  to  theirs.     He  said  to  tiiem, 
'  Fair  sirs,  whose  are  ye  ?  "     They  made  answer  cold, 
*'  The  beautiful  woman,  sir,  our  mother  dear, 
Nil<)i>a,  y)are  us  to  great  Lamech's  son." 
And  he,  replying,   "1  am  he."     They  said, 
"  We  know  it,  sir.     We  have  rememberetl  you 
Through  many  seasons.     Pray  you  let  us  not ; 
We  fain  would  greet  our  mother."     And  they  made 
Obeisance  and  passed  on  ;  then  all  their  train, 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM.  309 


Which  while  they  spoke  had  halted,  moved  a,pace, 
And,  while  the  silent  father  stood,  went  by, 
He  gazing  after,  as  a  man  that  dreams ; 
For  he  was  sick  with  their  cold,  quiet  scorn. 
That  seemed  to  say,  "  Father,  we  own  you  not, 
We  love  you  not,  for  you  have  left  us  long, — 
So  long,  we  care  not  that  you  come  again." 

And  while  the  sullen  camels  moved,  he  spake 

To  him  that  led  the  last,  "  There  are  but  two 

Of  these  my  sons  ;  but  where  doth  Japhet  ride  ? 

For  I  would  see  him."     And  the  leader  said, 

"  Sir,  ye  shall  find  him,  if  j'e  follow  up 

Along  the  track.     Afore  the  noonday  meal 

The  young  men,  even   our  masters,  bathed ;  (thero 

grows 
A  clump  of  cedars  by  the  bend  of  yon 
Clear  river) — there  did  .Japhet,  after  meat. 
Being  right  weary,  lay  him  down  and  sleep. 
There,  with  a  company  of  slaves  and  some 
Few  camels,  ye  shall  find  him." 

And  the  man, 
The  father  of  these  three,  did  let  him  pass, 
And  struggle  and  give  battle  to  his  heart, 
Standing  as  motionless  as  pillar  set 
To  guide  a  wanderer  in  a  pathless  waste  ; 
But  all  his  strength  went  from  him,  and  he  strove 
Vainly  to  trample  out  and  trample  down 
The  misery  of  his  love  unsatisfied, — 
Unutterable  love  flung  in  his  face. 
Then  he  broke  out  in  {passionate  words,  that  cried 
Against  his  lot :   "I  have  lost  my  own,  and  won 
None  other  ;  no,  not  one  !'    Alas,  my  sons  1 
That  I  have  looked  to  for  my  solacing, 
In  the  bitterness  to  come.     My  children  dear  !  " 


-iio  A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 


And  when  from  his  own  lips  he  heard  those  words, 
With  passionate  stirring  of  the  heart,  he  wept. 

And  none  came  near  to  comfort  him.     His  face 

Was  on  the  ground  ;  but  having  wept,  he  rose 

Full  hastily,  and  urged  his  way  to  find 

The  river  ;  and  in  hollow  of  his  hand 

Raised  up  the  water  to  his  brow  :  "  This  son, 

This  other  son  of  mine,"  he  said,  "  shall  see 

No  tears  upon  my  face."     And  he  looked  on, 

Beheld  the  camels,  and  a  group  of  slaves 

Sitting  apart  from  some  one  fast  asleep. 

Whore  they  had  spread  out  webs  of  broidery  work 

Under  a  cedar- tree  ;   and  he  came  on, 

And  when  they  made  obeisance  he  declared 

His  name,  and  said,  "  I  will  beside  my  son 

Sit  till  he  wakeneth."     So  Japhetlay 

A-dreaming,  and  his  father  drew  to  him. 

He  said,  "  This  cannot  scorn  nieyet;"  and  paused, 

Right  angry  with  himself,  because  the  youth, 

Albeit  of  stately  growth,  so  languidly 

Lay  with  a  listless  smile  upon  his  mouth, 

That  was  full  sweet  and  pure;   and  as  he  looked 

He  half  forgot  his  trouble  in  his  pride. 

"  And  is  this  mine?  "  said  he,  "  my  son  !  my  own  I 

(God,  thou  art  good  !)     O,  if  this  turn  away, 

Tliat  pang  shall  be  past  bearing.     I  must  think 

That  all  the  sweetness  of  his  goodly  face 

Is  copied  from  his  soul.      How  beautiful 

Are  children  to  their  fathers  !     Son,  my  heart 

Is  greatly  glad  because  of  thee  ;  mj'  life 

Sliall  lack  of  no  completeness  in  the  days 

To  come.     If  I  forget  the  joy  of  youth, 

In  thee  shall  I  be  comforted  ;   ay,  see 

My  youth,  a  dearer  than  my  own  again." 

And  when  he  ceased,  the  youth,  with   sleep  content, 
Murmured  a  little,  turned  himself,  and  woke. 


j4  STOR  V  OF  DOOM.  3 ^  ^ 

He  woke,  and  opened  on  his  father's  face 

Tlie  darkness  of  his  eyes  ;  but  not  a  word 

Tlie  Master-shipwright  said, — his  hps  were  sealed  ; 

He  was  not  read}',  for  he  feared  to  see 

This   mouth   curled   up    witli  scorn.      And    Japhet 

spoke. 
Full  of  the  calm  that  cometh  after  sleep  : 
"  Sir,  I  have  dreamed  of  you.     I  pray  you,  sir, 
What  is  your  name  ?  "  and  even  with  his  words 
His  countenance  changed.     The  son  of  Laraech  said, 
"  Why  art  thou  sad  ?     What  have  I  done  to  thee  ?  '* 
And  Japhpt  answered,  "  O,  methought  I  fled 
In  the  wilderness  before  a  maddened  beast, 
And  you  came  up  and  slew  it ;  and  I  thought 
You  were  my  father  ;  but  I  fear  me,  sir, 
My  thoughts  were  vain."     With  that  his  father  said, 
"  Whate'er  of  blessing  Tlion  reserv'st  for  me, 
God  I  if  Tliou  wilt  not  give  to  both,  give  here  : 
Bless  him  with  both  Thy  hands  ;  "  and  laid  his  own 
On  Japhet's  head. 

Then  Japhet  looked  on  him, 
Made  quiet  by  content,  and  answered  low. 
With  faltering  laughter,  glad  and  reverent :   "  Sir, 
You  are  my  father  ?  "     "  Ay,"  quoth  he,  "I  ami 
Kiss  me,  my  son  ;    and  let  me  hear  my  name, 
My  much  desired  name,  from  your  dear  lips." 

Then  after,  rested,  they  betook  them  home  : 

And  Japhot,  walking  by  the  Master,  thought, 

"  I  did  not  will  to  love  this  sire  of  mine  ; 

But  now  I  feel  as  if  I  had  always  known 

And  loved  him  well  ;  truly,  I  see  not  why, 

But  I  would  rather  serve  him  than  go  free 

With  my  two  brethren."     And  he  said  to  him, 

*'  Father  !  " — who  answered,  "  I  am  here,  my  son." 

And  Japhet  said,  "  I  pray  you,  sir,  attend 


312  A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 


To  this  my  answer  :  let  me  go  with  you, 

For,  now  I  think  on  it,  I  do  not  love 

The  chase,  nor  managing  the  steed,  nor  yet 

The  arrows  «ind  the  bow  ;  but  rather  you. 

For  all  you  do  and  say,  and  you  yourself, 

Are  goodly  and  delightsome  in  mine  eyes. 

I  pray  you,  sir,  when  you  go  forth  again, 

That  I  may  also  go."     And  he  rej^lied, 

"  I  will  tell  thy  speech  unto  the  Highest ;  Ue 

Shall  answer  it.     But  I  would  speak  to  thee 

Now  of  the  days  to  come.     Know  thou,  most  dear 

To  this  thy  father,  that  the  drenched  world, 

When  risen  clean  washed  from  water,  shall  receive 

From  thee  her  lordliest  governors,  from  thee 

Daughters  of  noblest  soul." 

So  Japhet  said, 
"  Sir,  I  am  young,  but  of  my  mother  straight 
1  will  go  ask  a  wife,  that  this  may  be. 
I  pray  you,  therefore,  as  the  manner  is 
Of  fathers,  give  me  land  that  1  may  reap 
Corn  for  sustaining  of  my  wife,  and  bruise 
The  fruit  of  the  vine  to  cheer  her."     But  he  said, 
"Dost  thou  forget?  or  dost  tliou  not  believe, 
My  son  ?  "     He  answered,  "  i  did  ne'er  believe, 
My  father,  ere  to-day  ;  but  now,  methinks, 
Whatever  thou  believest  I  believe, 
For  thy  beloved  sake.     If  this  then  be 
As  thou  (I  hear)  hast  said,  and  earth  doth  l)ear 
The  last  of  her  wheat  harvests,  and  mak"  ripe 
The  latest  of  her  grapes  ;  yet  hear  me,  sir, 
None  of  the  daughters  shall  be  given  to  me 
If  I  be  landless."     Then  his  father  said, 
"  Lift  up  thine  eyes  towards  the  north,  my  sou  : 
And  so  he  did.     "  Behold  thy  heritage  !  " 
Quoth  the  world's  prince  and  master,  "  far  away 
Upon  the  side  o'  the  north,  where  green  the  field 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM.  313 

Lies  every  season  through,  and  where  the  dews  * 

Of  heaven  are  Avholesome,  shall  thy  children  reign  ; 

I  part  it  to  them,  for  the  earth  is  mine  ; 

The  Higliest  gave  it  me  :  I  make  it  theirs. 

Moreover,  for  thy  marriage  gift,  behold 

The  cedars  where  thou  sleepedst !     There  are  vinee  j 

And  up  the  rise  is  growing  wheat.     I  give 

(For  all,  alas  I  is  mine),— I  give  thee  both 

For  dowry,  and  my  blessing." 

And  he  said, 
"  Sir,  you  are  good,  and  therefore  the  Most  High 
Shall  bless  me  also.     Sir,  I  love  you  well." 


BOOK  V. 

Ak"d  when  two  days  were  over,  Japhet  said, 

'•  Mother,  so  please  you,  get  a  wife  for  me." 

The  mother  answered,  "Dost  thou  mock  me,  son? 

'Tis  not  the  manner  of  our  kin  to  wed 

So  young.  Thou  knowest  it ;  art  thou  not  ashamed  1 

Thou  carest  not  for  a  wife."  And  the  youth  blushed. 

And  made  for  answer  :  "  This,  my  fatner,  saith 

The  doom  is  nigh  ;  now,  therefore,  tiiid  a  maid, 

Or  else  shall  I  be  wifeless  all  my  days. 

And  as  for  me,  I  caro  not ;  but  the  lands 

Are  parted,  and  the  goodliest  sliare  is  mine. 

And  lo  !  my  brethren  are  betrothed  ;  their  maids 

Are  with  thee  in  the  house.     Tlien  why  not  mine? 

Didst  thou  not  diligently  search  for  these 

Among  the  noblest  born  of  all  the  earth, 

And  hvh\\>  Tiiem  up?     My  sisters,  dwell  they  not 

With  women  that  bespeak  them  for  their  sons '•' 

Now,  therefore,  let  a  wife  be  found  for  me, 

Fair  as  the  day,  and  gentle  to  my  will 

As  thou  art  to  my  father's."     When  she  heard, 


314  ^  STORY  OF  DOOM. 

■Niloiya  pip;lied,  and  answered,  "  It  is  well." 
And  Japliet  went  out  from  her  presence. 

Then 
Quoth  the  great  Master  :  "  Wherefore  sought  ye  not. 
Woman,  these  many  days,  nor  tired  at  all, 
Till  ye  had  found,  a  maiden  for  my  son? 
In  this  ye  have  done  ill."     Niloiya  said  : 
"  Let  not  my  lord  be  angry.     All  my  soul 
Is  sad  :  my  lord  hath  walked  afar  so  long, 
That  some  despise  thee  ;  yea,  our  servants  fail 
Lately  to  bring  their  stint  of  corn  and  wood. 
And,  sir,  thy  household  slaves  do  steal  away 
To  thy  great  father,  and  our  lands  lie  waste, — 
None  till  them  :  therefore  think  the  women  sooru 
To  give  me — whatsoever  gems  I  send, 
And  goodly  raiment  (yea,  I  seek  afar, 
And  sue  with  all  desire  and  humbleness 
Through  every  master's  house,  but  no  one  gives) — 
A  daughter  for  my  son."     With  that  she  ceased. 

Then  said  the  Master :  "  Some  thou  hast  with  theo, 

Brought  up  among  thy  children,  dutiful 

And  fair  ;  thy  father  gave  them  for  my  slaves, — 

Children  of  them  whom  he  brought  captive  forth 

From  their  own  heritage."     And  she  replied. 

Right  scornfully  :  "  Shall  Japhet  wed  a  slave?  " 

Then  said  the  Master  :  "  He  shall  wod  :  look  thou 

To  that.     I  say  not  he  shall  wed  a  slave  ; 

But,  by  the  might  of  One  that  made  him  mine, 

I  will  not  quit  thee  for  ray  doomed  way 

Until  thou  wilt  betroth  him.     Therefore,  haste, 

Beautiful  woman,  loved  of  me  and  mine, 

To  bring  a  maiden,  and  to  say,  '  Behold 

A  wife  for  Japhet.'  "     Then  she  answered,  "  Sir, 

It  shall  be  done." 

And  forth  Niloiya  sped. 
Bhe  gathered  all  her  jewels,— all  she  held 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM.  315 

Of  costly  or  of  rich, — and  went  and  spake 

With  some  few  slaves  that  yet  abode  with  her, 

For  dcaily  they  were  fewer  ;  and  went  forth. 

With  fair  and  flattering  words,  among  her  feres. 

And  fain  had  wrought  with  them  :  and  she  had  hopo 

That  made  her  sick,  it  was  so  fain^  ;   and  then 

She  had  fear,  and  after  she  had  certainty, 

For  all  did  scorn  her.     "  Nay,"  they  cried,  "  O  fool  \ 

If  this  be  so,  and  on  a  watery  world 

Ye  think  to  rock,  what  matters  if  a  wife 

Be  free  or  bond  ?     There  shall  be  none  to  rule- 

If  she  have  freedom  :  if  she  have  it  not. 

None  shall  there  be  to  servu." 

And  she  alit. 
The  time  leing  done,  dePTiondinc  at  her  d<>f)r. 
And    went    behind   a    screen,    where    should    have 

wrought 
The  daughters  of  the  captives  ;  but  there  wrought 
One  only,  and  this  rose  from  off  the  floor. 
Where  she  tlie  river  rush  full  deftly  wove. 
And  made  obeisance.     Then  Niloiya  said, 
"  Where  are  thy  fellows  ?  "    And  the  maid  repliod 
"Let  not  Niloiya,  this  my  lady  loved, 
Be  angry  ;  they  are  fled  since  yester-night." 
Then  said  Niloiya,  "  Amarant,  my  slave. 
When  have  1  called  thee  by  thy  name  before  ?  " 
She  answered,  "  Lady,  never  ;  "  and  she  took 
And  sjn-ead  her  broidered  robe  before  her  face. 
Niloiya  sjxjke  thus  :  "  I  am  couiu  to  woe, 
And  thou  to  honor."     Saying  this  she  wept 
Passionate  tears  ;  and  all  the  damsel's  soul 
Was  full  of  yearning  wonder,  and  her  robe 
Slipped  from  her  hand,  and  her  right  innocent  faoe 
Was  seen  betwixt  her  locks  of  tawny  hair 
That  dropped  about  her  knees,  and  her  two  eyes, 
Blu<^  as  the  muoh-loved  flower  that  rims  the  bocK, 


3i6  J  STORY  OF  DOOn' 


Looked  sweetly  on  Niloiya  ;  but  she  knew 

No  meaning  in  her  Avords  ;  and  she  drew  nigh, 

And  kneeled  and  said.  "  Will  this  my  lady  speak? 

Tier  damsel  is  desirous  of  her  words." 

Then  said  Niloiya,  "  I,  tiiy  mistress,  sought 

A  wife  for  Japhet,  and  no  wife  is  found." 

And  yet  again  she  wept  with  grief  of  heart. 

Saying,  "  Ah  me,  miserable  !     i  must  give 

A  wife, — the  Master  willeth  it, — a  wife, 

All  me  !  unto  the  high-born.     13  e  will  scorn  , 

His  mother  and  reproach  me.     I  must  give —    \ 

None  else  have  I  to  give — a  slave — even  thee." 

This  further  spake  Niloiva  :  "  I  was  good, — 

Had  rue  on  thee,  a  tende'-  ^--"Vt-.o-  oliild. 

When  they  did  tear  thee  from  thv  mother's  breast ; 

I  fed  thee,  gave  thee  sheltr-  ,  and  I  taught 

Thy  hands  all  cunnina:  arts  that  ^-onit.   pri:':- 

But  out  on  me !  n  y  good  is  turned  to  ill. 

0  Japhet,  well  beloved  I  "     And  she  rose  up, 

And  did  restrain  herself,  saying,  "  J)ost  thou  heed? 
Behold,  this  thing  shall  be."     The  damsel  sighedj 
"  Lady,  I  do."     Then  went  Niloiya  forth. 

And  Amarant  murmured  in  her  deep  amaze, 
"Shall  .Taphet's  little  children  kiss  my  mouth? 
And  will  he  sometimes  take  them  from  my  armSo 
And  almost  care  for  me  for  their  sweet  sake  ? 

1  have  not  dared  to  think  I  loved  him, — now 
I  know  it  well :  but  O,  the  bitterness 

For  him  !  "     And  ending  thus,  the  damsel  ro?e 
For  Japhet  entered.     And  she  bowed  herself 
Meekly  and  made  obeisance,  but  her  blood 
Ran  cold  about  her  heart,  for  all  liis  fac3 
Was  colored  with  his  passion. 

Japhet  epoke : 
He  said,  "My  father  s  slave  ;  "  and  she  rephed. 
Low  drooping  her  fair  head,  "  My  master's  son." 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM.  317 

And  after  that  a  silence  fell  on  them, 

With  trembling  at  her  heart,  and  rage  at  his. 

And  Japhet,  mastered  of  his  passion,  sat 

And  could  not  speak.     O,  cruel  seemed  his  fate, — 

So  cruel  he  that  told  it,  so  unkind. 

His  breast  was  full  of  wounded  love  and  wrath 

Wrestling  together  ;  and  his  eyes  flashed  out 

Indignant  lights,  as  all  amazed  he  took 

The  insult  home  that  she  had  offered  him, 

Who  should  have  held  his  honor  dear. 

And,  lo, 
The  misery  choked  him,  and  he  cried  in  pain, 
"  Go,  get  thee  forth;  "  but  she,  all  white  and  still, 
Parted  her  lips  to  speak,  and  yet  spake  not, 
Ivor  moved.     And  Japhet  rose  up  passionate, 
With  lifted  arm  as  one  about  to  strike  ; 
But  she  cried  out  and  met  him,  and  she  held 
With  desperate  might  his  hand,  and  prax'ed  to  him, 
"  Stnke  not,  or  else  shall  men  from  henceforth  say, 
'  Japhet  is  like  to  us.'  "     And  he  shook  off 
The  damsel,  and  he  said,  "  I  thank  thee,  slave  ; 
For  never  have  I  stricken  yet  or  child 
Or  woman.     Not  for  thy  sake  am  I  glad, 
Nay,  but  for  mine.     Get  hence.     Obey  my  v/ords." 
Then  Japhet  lifted  up  his  voice,  and  wept. 

And  no  more  he  restrained  himself,  but  cried, 
With  heavings  of  the  heart,  "  O  hateful  day  I 
O  day  that  shuts  the  door  upon  delight ! 
A  slave  1  to  wed  a  slave  !     O  loathrd  wife, 
Hated  of  Japhet's  soul."     And  after,  long. 
With  face  between  his  hands,  he  sat,  his  thnnghts 
Sullen  and  sore  ;  then  scorned  himself,  and  saying, 
"  I  will  not  take  her,  I  will  die  unwed. 
It  is  but  that  ;  "  lift  up  his  eyes  and  saw 
The  slave,  and  she  was  sitting  at  his  feet 


3*8  A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 


And  he,  so  greatly  wonderinf?  that  she  dared 
The  di?obedience,  looked  her  in  the  face 
Less  angry  than  afraid,  for  pale  she  was 
As  lily  yet  unsniiled  on  by  the  sun  ; 
And  he,  his  passion  being  spent,  sighed  out, 
"Low  am  I  fallen  indeed.     Hast  thou  no  fear, 
That  thou  dost  flout  me  ?  "  but  she  gave  to  him 
The  sighing  echo  of  his  sigh,  and  mourned, 
"  No." 

And  he  wondered,  and  he  looked  again, 
For  in  her  heart  there  was  a  new-born  pang, 
That  cried  ;  but  she,  as  niothers  with  their  young, 
Suffered,  yet  loved  it ;  and  there  shone  a  strange 
Grave  sweetness  in  her  blue  unsullied  eyes. 
And  Japhet,  leaning  from  the  settle,  thought, 
"  What  is  it  ?     I  will  call  her  by  her  name, 
To  comfort  her,  for  also  she  is  naught 
To  blame  ;  and  since  I  will  not  her  to  wife. 
She  falls  back  from  the  freedom  she  had  hoped." 
Then  he  said,  "  Amarant ;  "  and  the  damsel  drew 
Her  eyes  down  slowly  from  the  shaded  sky 
Of  even,  and  she  said,  "  My  master's  son, 
Japhet  ;  "  and  Japhet  said,  "  1  am  not  wroth 
With  thee,  but  wretched  for  my  motlier's  deed. 
Because  she  shamed  me." 


And  the  maiden  said, 
"Doth  not  thy  father  lovo  thee  well,  sweet  sir  ?  " 
"  Ay,"   quoth  he,    "  well."     She  answered,  "  Let  the 

heart 
Of  Japhet,  then,  >)e  merry.     Go  to  him 
And  say,  '  The  damsel  whom  my  mother  chose 
Sits  by  her  in  the  house  ;  but  as  for  me, 
Sire,  ere  I  take  her,  let  me  go  with  you 
To  that  same  ontland  country.     Also,  sir, 
My  damsel  hath  not  worked  as  yot  the  rube 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM.  319 

Of  her  betrothal  ;  '  now,  then,  sith  he  loves, 
He  will  not  say  thee  nay.     Herein  for  awhile 
Is  respite,  and  thy  mother  far  and  near 
Will  seek  again  :  it  may  be  she  will  find 
A  fair,  free  maiden." 

Japhet  said,  "O  maid, 
Sweet  are  thy  words  ;  but  what  if  I  return, 
And  all  again  be  as  it  is  to-day  ?  " 
Then  Amarant  answered,  "  Some  have  died  in  youth  ; 
But  yet,  1  think  not,  sir,  that  I  shall  die. 
Though  ye  shall  find  it  even  as  I  had  died, — 
Silent  for  any  words  I  might  have  said  ; 
Empty,  for  any  space  I  n;ight  have  filled. 
Sir,  I  will  steal  away,  and  hide  afar ; 
But  if  a  wife  be  found,  then  will  I  bide 
And  serve."     He  answered,  "  O,  thy  speech  is  good  ; 
Now,  therefore  (since  my  mother  gave  mo  thee), 
I  will  reward  it ;  I  will  find  for  thee 
A  goodly  husband,  and  will  njake  him  free ; 
Thee  also." 

Then  she  started  from  his  feet. 
And,  red  with  shame  and  anger,  fiashed  on  him 
The  passion  of  her  eyes  ;  and  put  her  hands 
"With  catching  of  the  breath  to  her  fair  throat, 
And  stood  in  her  defiance  lost  to  fear. 
Like  some  fair  hind  in  desperate  danger  turned 
And  brought  to  bay,  and  wild  in  her  despair. 
But  shortly,  "  I  remember,'"  quoth  she,  low, 
With  raining  down  of  tears  and  broken  sighs, 
"That  I  am  Japhet's  slave  ;  beseech  you,  sir, 
As  ye  were  ever  gentle,  ay,  and  sweet 
Of  language  to  me,  be  not  harder  now. 
Sir,  I  was  yours  to  take  ;   1  knew  not,  sir, 
That  also  ye  might  give  me.     Pray  you,  sir. 
Be  pitiful, — be  merciful  to  me, 
A  slave."     lie  said,  "  1  thought  to  do  thee  good, 


320  A  STOR  V  OF  DOOM. 

For  fjood  hatb  been  thy  counsel  ]  "  but  she  cried, 

"  Good  master,  be  you  therefore  pitiful 

To  nie,  a  slave."     And  Japhet  wondered  much 

At  her,  and  at  her  beauty,  for  he  thought, 

"  None  of  the  daughters  are  so  fair  as  this. 

Is  or  stand  with  such  a  grace  majestical  ; 

She  in  her  locks  is  like  the  travelling  sun. 

Setting,  all  clad  in  coifing  clouds  of  gold. 

And  would  she  die  unmatched  ?  "     He  said  to  her, 

"'  What !  wilt  thou  sail  alone  in  yonder  ship. 

And  dwell  alone  hereafter  ?  "     "Ay,"  she  said, 

"  And  serve  my  mistress." 

"  It  is  well,"  quoth  he, 
And  held  his  hand  to  her,  as  is  the  way 
Of  masters.     Then  she  kissed  it,  and  she  said, 
"Tlianks  for  benevolence,"  and  turned  herself, 
Adding,  "  I  rest,  sir,  on  your  gracious  words  ;  " 
Then  stepped  into  the  twilight  and  was  gone. 

And  Japhet,  having  found  his  father,  said, 

"  Sir,  let  me  also  journey  when  ye  go." 

Who  answered,  "  liatli  thy  mother  done  her  part?" 

He  said,  "  Yea,  truly,  and  my  damsel  sits 

Before  her  in  the  house :  and  also,  sir. 

She  said  to  me,  '  I  have  not  worked,  as  yet, 

The  garment  of  betrothal.'  "     And  he  said, 

•'  'Tis  not  the  manner  of  our  kin  to  speak 

Concerning  matters  that  a  woman  rules  ; 

But  hath  thy  mother  brought  a  damsel  homo, 

And  let  her  see  thy  face,  then  all  is  one 

As  ye  were  wed."     lie  answered,  "  Even  so, 

It  matters  nothing  ;  therefore  hear  me,  sir: 

The  damsel  being  mine,  I  am  content 

To  let  her  do  according  to  her  will ; 

And  wlien  we  shall  return,  so  surely,  sir, 

As  1  shall  lind  her  by  my  mother's  bide, 


.4  STORY  OF  DOOM.  321 

Then  will  I  take  her  ;  "  and  he  left  to  speak  ; 
His  father  answering,  "  Son,  thy  words  are  good." 

BOOK  VI. 

Night.     Now  a  tent  was  pitched,  and  Japhet  sat 
In  the  door  and  watched,  for  on  a  litter  lay 
The  father  of  his  love.     And  he  Avas  sick 
To  death  ;  but  daily  he  would  rouse  him  up. 
And  stare  upon  the  light,  and  ever  say, 
"  On,  let  us  journey  ;  "  but  it  came  to  pass 
That  night,  across  their  path  a  river  ran, 
And  they  who  served  the  father  and  the  son 
Had  pitched  the  tents  beside  it,  and  had  made 
A  fire  to  scare  away  the  savagery 
That  roamed  in  that  great  forest,  for  their  way 
Had  led  among  the  trees  of  God. 

The  moon 
Shone  on  the  river,  like  a  silver  road 
To  lead  them  over  ;  but  when  Japhet  looked, 
He  said,  "  We  shall  not  cross  it.     I  shall  lay 
This  well-beloved  head  low  in  the  leaves, — 
Not  on  the  farther  side."     From  time  to  time, 
The  water-snakes  would  stir  its  glassy  flow 
With  curhng  undulations,  and  would  lay 
Their  heads  along  the  banks,  and,  subtle-eyed, 
Consider  those  long  spirting  flames,  that  danced. 
When  some  red  log  would  break  and  crumble  down. 
And  show  his  dark  despondent  eyes,  that  watched, 
Wearily,  even  Japhet's.     But  he  cared 
Little  ;  and  in  the  dark,  that  was  not  dark. 
But  dimness  of  confused  incertitude, 
Would  move  a-near  all  silently,  and  gaze 
And  breathe,  and  shape  itself,  a  maiic'd  thing 
With  eyes  ;  and  still  he  cared  not,  and  the  form 
Would  falter,  then  recede,  and  melt  again 

21 


323  A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 


Into  the  farther  shade.     And  Japhet  said  : 

•'  How  long-  ?  The  moon  hath  grown  again  hi  heaven, 

After  her  caving  twice,  since  we  did  leave 

The  threshold  of  our  home  ;  and  now  what  'vails 

That  far  on  tumbled  mountain  snow  we  toiled, 

Hungry,  and  weary,  all  the  day  ;  by  night 

Waked  with  a  dreadful  trembling  underneath. 

To  look,  while  every  cone  smoked,  and  there  ran 

Ked  brooks  adown,  that  licked  the  forest  up, 

While  in  the  pale  white  ashes  wading  on 

We  saw  no  stars  ?— what  'vails  if  afterward. 

Astonished  with  great  silence,  we  did  move 

Over  the  measureless,  unknown  desert  mead  ; 

While  all  the  day,  in  rents  and  crevices, 

Would  lie  the  lizard  and  the  serpent  kind, 

Drowsy  ;  and  in  the  night  take  fearsome  shapes, 

And  ofttimes  woman-faced  and  woman-haired 

Would  trail  their  snaky  length,  and  curse  and  mourn} 

Or  there  would  wander  up,  when  we  were  tired, 

Dark  troops  of  evil  ones,  with  eyes  morose. 

Withstanding  us,  and  staring  ;— O,  what  'vails 

That  in  the  dread  deep  forest  we  have  fought 

With  following  packs  of  wolves  ?  These  men  of  might. 

Even  the  giants,  shall  not  hear  the  doom 

My  father  came  to  tell  them  of.     Ah  me  ! 

If  God  indeed  had  sent  him,  would  he  lie 

(For  he  is  stricken  with  a  sore  disease) 

Helpless  outside  their  city  ?  " 

Then  he  rose, 
And  put  aside  the  curtains  of  the  tent. 
To  look  upon  his  father's  face  ;  and  lo  ! 
The  tent  being  dark,  he  thoi-ght  that  somewhat  sat 
Beside  the  litter  ;  and  he  set  his  eyes 
To  see  it,  and  saw  not ;  but  only  marked 
Where,  fallen  away  from  manhood  and  from  power. 
His  father  lay.     Then  he  came  forth  again, 


i 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM.  323 

Trembling,  and  ci-ouched  beside  the  dull  red  fire, 

And  murmured,  "  Now  it  is  the  second  time  : 

An  old  man,  as  I  think  (but  scarcely  saw). 

Dreadful  of  might.     Its  hair  was  white  as  wool : 

I  dared  not  look  ;  perhaps  I  saw  not  aught, 

But  only  knew  that  it  was  there  :  the  same 

Which  walked  beside  us  once  when  he  did  pray." 

And  Japhet  hid  his  face  between  his  hands 

For  fear,  and  grief  of  heart,  and  weariness 

Of  watching;  and  he  slumbered  not,  but  mourned 

To  himself,  a  little  moment,  as  it  seemed, 

For  sake  of  his  loved  father  ;  then  he  lift 

His  eyes,  and  day  had  dawned.     Right  suddenly 

The  moon  withheld  her  silver,  and  she  hung 

Frail  as  a  cloud.     The  ruddy  flame  that  played 

By  night  on  dim,  dusk  ti-ees,  and  on  the  flood,  ^ 

Crept  red  amongst  the  logs,  and  all  the  world 

And  all  the  water  blushed  and  bloomed.     The  stars 

Were  gone,  and  golden  shafts  came  up,  and  touched 

The  feathered  heads  of  palms,  and  green  was  born 

Under  the  rosy  cloud,  and  purples  flew 

Like  veils  across  the  mountains  ;  and  he  saw, 

Winding  athwart  them,  bathed  in  blissful  peace. 

And  the  sacredness  of  morn,  the  battlements 

And  outposts  of  the  giants  ;  and  there  ran 

On  the  other  side  the  river,  as  it  were, 

White  mounds  of  mai-ble,  tabernacles  fair, 

And  towers  below  a  line  of  inland  cliff  : 

These  were  their  fastnesses,  and  here  their  homes. 

In  valleys  and  the  forest,  all  that  night. 
There  had  been  woe  ;  in  every  hollow  place, 
And  under  walls,  hke  drifted  flowers,  or  snow, 
Women  lay  mourning  ;  for  the  serpent  lodged 
That  night  within  the  gates,  and  had  decreed, 
"  I  -will  (or  ever  I  come)  that  ye  drive  out 
The  women,  the  abhorred  of  my  soul." 


j24 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 


Therefore,  more  beauteous  than  all  cliinbing  bloom, 

Purple  and  scarlet,  cumbering  of  the  boughs, 

Or  flights  of  azure  cloves  that  lit  to  drink 

The  water  of  the  river  ;  or,  new  born, 

The  quivering  butterflies  in  companies. 

That  slowly  crept  adown  the  sandy  marge, 

Like  living  crocus  beds,  and  also  drank, 

And  rose  an  orange  cloud  ;  their  hollowed  hands 

They  dipped  between  the  lilies,  or  with  robes 

Full  of  ripe  fruitage,  sat  and  peeled  and  ate, 

Weeping  ;  or  comforting  their  little  ones, 

And  lulling  them  with  sorrowful  long  hymns 

Among  the  palms. 

So  went  the  earlier  morn. 
Then  came  a  messenger,  while  Japhet  sat 
Mournfully,  and  he  said,  "  The  men  of  might 
Are  willing;  let  thy  master,  youth,  appear." 
And  Japhet  said,  "  So  be  it ;  "  and  he  thought, 
"  Now  will  I  trust  in  God  ;  "  and  he  went  in 
And  stood  before  his  father,  and  he  said, 
"  My  father  ;  "  but  the  Master  answered  not, 
But  gazed  upon  the  curtains  of  his  tent, 
Nor  knew  that  one  had  called  him.     He  was  clad 
As  ready  for  the  journey,  and  his  feet 
Were  sandalled,  and  his  staff  was  at  his  side  ; 
And  Japhet  took  the  gown  of  sacrifice 
And  spread  it  on  him,  and  he  laid  his  crown 
Upon  his  knees,  and  he  went  forth,  and  lift 
llis  hand  to  heaven,  and  cried,  "  My  father's  God  !  " 
But  neither  whisper  came  nor  echo  fell 
When  he  did  listen.     Therefore  he  went  on  : 
"  Behold,  I  have  a  thing  to  say  to  thee. 
My  father  charged  thy  servant,  *  Let  not  ruth 
Prevail  with  thee  to  turn  and  bear  me  hence. 
For  God  appointed  me  my  task,  to  preach 
Before  the  mightj'.'     I  must  do  my  part 


A  STORY  OP  DOOM.  Z^S 

(O,  let  it  not  displease  thee),  for  he  said 
But  yesternight,  '  When  they  shall  send  for  me, 
Take  me  before  them.'     And  I  sware  to  him. 
I  pray  thee,  therefore,  count  his  life  and  mine 
Precious  ;  for  I  that  sware,  I  will  perform." 

Then  cried  he  to  his  people,  "  Let  us  hence  : 
Take  up  the  litter."     And  they  set  their  feet 
Toward  the  raft  whereby  men  crossed  that  flood. 

And  while  they  journeyed,  lo,  the  giants  sat 

Within  the  fairest  hall  where  all  were  fair. 

Each  on  his  carven  throne,  o'er-canopied 

With  work  of  women.     And  the  dragon  lay 

In  a  place  of  honor  ;  and  with  subtlety 

He  counselled  them,  for  they  did  speak  by  turns  ; 

And  they,  being  proud,  might  nothing  master  them, 

But  guile  alone  :  and  he  did  fawn  on  them  ; 

And  when  the  younger  taunted  him,  submiss 

He  testified  great  humbleness,  and  cried, 

"  A  cruel  God,  forsooth  !  but  nay,  O  nay, 

I  will  not  think  it  of  Him,  that  He  meant 

To  threaten  these.     O,  when  I  look  on  them, 

How  doth  my  soul  admire." 

And  one  stood  forth, 
The  youngest ;  of  his  brethren  named  "  the  Rock." 
"Speak  out,"  quoth  he,  "  thou  toothless,  slavering 

thing, 
AVhat  is  it  ?  thinkest  thou  that  such  as  we 
Should  be  afraid  ?     What  is  this  goodly  doom  ?  " 
And  Satan  laughed  upon  him.     "  Lo,"  said  he, 
"  Thou  art  not  fully  grown,  and  every  one 
I  look  on  standeth  higher  by  the  head, 
Yea,  and  the  shoulders,  than  do  other  men  ; 
Forsooth,   thy  servant    thought  not  thou   wouldst 

fear. 


326  A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 


Thou  and  thy  fellows."     Then  with  one  accord, 

"  Speak,"   cried  they ;    and   with  mild,   persuasive 

eyes, 
And  flattering  tongue,  he  spoke. 

"  Ye  mighty  ones, 
It  hath  been  known  to  you  these  many  days 
How  that  for  piety  I  am  much  famed. 
I  am  exceeding  pious  :  if  1  lie, 
As  hath  been  whispered,  it  is  but  for  sake 
Of  God,  and  that  ye  should  not  think  Him  hard, 
For  I  am  all  for  God.     Now  some  have  thought 
That  He  hath  also  (and  it  may  be  so 
Or  yet  may  not  be  so)  on  me  been  hard  ; 
Be  not  ye  therefore  wroth  for  my  poor  sake  ; 
I  am  contented  to  have  earned  your  weal, 
Though  I  must  therefore  suffer. 

"Now  to-day 
One  Cometh,  yea,  an  harmless  man,  a  fool, 
"Who  boasts  he  hath  a  message  from  our  God, 
And  lest  that  you,  for  bravery  of  heart 
And  stoutness,  being  angered  with  his  prate, 
Should  lift  a  hand,  and  kill  him,  I  am  here." 

Then  spoke  the  Leader,  "  How  now,  snake?    Thy 
words 

Ring  false.     Why  ever  liest  thou,  snake,  to  us  ? 
Thou  coward  !  none  of  us  will  see  thee  harmed. 
1  say  thou  liest.     The  land  is  strewed  with  slain  ; 
Myself  have  hewn  down  companies,  and  blood 
Makes  fertile  all  the  field.     Thou  knowest  it  well ; 
And  hast  thou,  driveller,  panting  sore  for  age, 
Come  with  a  force  to  bid  us  spare  one  fool  ?  " 

And  Satan  answered,  '«  Nay  you  1  be  not  wroth  ; 
Yet  true  it  is,  and  yet  not  all  the  truth. 
Your  servant  would  have  told  the  rest,  if  now 


I 


(For  fulness  of  your  life  being  fretted  sore 
At  mine  infirmities,  which  God  in  vain 
I  supplicate  to  heal)  ye  had  not  caused 
My  speech  to  stop."     And  he  they  called  "  the  Oak" 
Made  answer,  *'  'Tis  a  good  snake  ;  let  him  he. 
Why  would  ye  fright  the  poor  old  craven  beast  ? 
Look  how  his  lolling  tongue  doth  foam  for  fear. 
Yo  should  have  mercy,  brethren,  on  the  weak. 
Speak,  dragon,  thou  hast  leave  ;    make  stout   thy 

heart. 
What !  hast  thou  lied  to  this  great  company  ? 
It  was,  we  know  it  was,  for  humbleness ; 
Thou  wert  not  willing  to  offend  with  truth." 
•*  Yea,  majesties,"  quoth  Satan,  "  thus  it  was," 
And  lifted  up  appealing  eyes,  and  groaned  ; 
"  O,  can  it  be,  compass'ionate  as  brave. 
And    housed    in    cunning    works    themselves  have 

reared. 
And  served  in  gold,  and  warmed  with  minivere, 
And  ruling  nobly,  that  He,  not  content 
Unless  alone  lie  reigneth,  looks  to  bend 
Or  break  them  in,  like  slaves  to  cry  to  Him, 
'  What  is  Thy  will  with  us,  O  Master  dear  ? ' 
Or  else  to  eat  of  death  ? 

"  For  my  part,  lords, 
I  cannot  think  it :  for  my  piety 
And  reason,  which  I  also  share  with  you, 
Are  my  best  lights,  and  ever  counsel  me, 
•  Believe  not  aught  against  thy  God  ;  believe. 
Since  thou  canst  never  reach  to  do  Ilim  wrong, 
That  lie  will  never  stoop  to  do  thee  wrong. 
Is  lie  not  just  and  equal,  yea,  and  kind?  ' 
Therefore,  O  majesties,  it  is  my  mind. 
Concerning  him  ye  Avot  of,  thus  to  think 
The  message  is  not  like  what  I  have  learned, 
By  reason  and  experience,  of  the  God. 


328  A  SrOJiY  OF  DOOM. 


Therefore  no  message  'tis.     The  man  is  mad."  i 

Thereat    the   Leader    laughed    for    scorn.      "Hold,  ; 

snake ; 
If  God  be  just,  there  shall  be  reckoning  days. 
We  rather  would  He  were  a  partial  God, 
And,  being  strong,  he  sided  with  the  strong. 
Turn  now  thy  reason  to  the  other  side, 
And  speak  for  that ;  for  as  to  justice,  snake. 
We  would  have  none  of  it." 

And  Satan  fawned  :  * 

"  My  lord  is  pleased  to  mock  at  my  poor  wit ; 
Yet  in  my  pious  fashion  I  must  talk  :  j 

For  say  that  God  was  wroth  with  man,  and  came 
And  slew  him,  that  should  make  an  empty  world, 
But  not  a  better  nation." 

This  replied, 
"  Truth,  dragon,  yet  He  is  not  bound  to  mean 
A  better  nation  ;  maybe.  He  designs, 
If  none  will  turn  again,  a  punishment 
Upon  an  evil  one." 

And  Satan  cried, 
"  Alas  !  my  heart  being  full  of  love  for  men, 
I  cannot  choose  but  think  of  God  as  like 
To  me  ;  and  yet  my  piety  concludes. 
Since  He  will  have  your  fear,  that  love  alone 
SufReeth  not,  and  I  admire,  and  say, 
'  Give  me,  O  friends,  your  love,  and  give  to  God 
Your  fear. '  "     But  they  cried  out  in  wrath  and  rage, 
"  Wu  are  not  strong  that  any  we  v,-ill  fear. 
Nor  specially  a  foe  that  means  us  ill." 

BOOK   VII. 


And  while  he  spoke  there  was  a  noise  without ; 
The  curtains  of  the  door  were  Hung  aside, 


i 


A  S TOK  Y  OF  DOOM.  329 

And  some  with  heavy  feet  bare  in,  and  set 
A  htter  on  the  floor. 

The  Master  lay 
Upon  it,  but  his  eyes  were  dimmed  and  set  ; 
And  Japhet,  in  despairing  weariness, 
Leaned  it  beside.     He  mariied  the  mighty  ones, 
Silent  for  pride  of  heart,  and  in  his  place 
'J'lie  jewelled  dragon  ;  and  the  dragon  laughed. 
And  subtly  peered  at  him,  till  Japhet  shook 
Wit'.i  rage  and  fear.     The  snaky  wonder  cried, 
liishing,  "  Thou  brown  haired  youth,  come  up  to  me  ; 
1  fain  would  have  thee  for  my  shrine  afar. 
To  serve  among  an  host  as  beautiful 
As  thou :  draw  near."     It  hissed,  and  Japhet  felt 
Horrible  drawings,  and  cried  out  in  fear, 
"  Father  !  O  help,  the  serjient  draweth  me !  " 
And  struggled  and  grew  faint,  as  in  the  toils 
A  netted  bird.     But  still  his  father  lay 
Unconscious,  and  the  mighty  did  not  speak, 
But  half  in  fear  and  half  in  wonderment 
Beheld.     And  yet  again  the  dragon  laughed. 
And  leered  at  him  and  hissed  ;  and  Japhet  strove 
Vainly  to  take  away  his  spell-set  eyes, 
And  moved  to  go  to  him,  till  piercingly 
Crying  out,  "  God  I  forbid  it,  Grod  in  heaven  !  " 
The  dragon  lowered  his  head,  and  shut  his  eyes 
As  feigning  sleep  ;  and,  suddenly  released. 
He  fell  back  staggering ;  and  at  noise  of  it. 
And  clash  of  Japhet's  weapons  on  the  floor. 
And  Japhet's  voice  crying  out,  "  I  loathe  thee,  snake  ' 
1  hate  thee!  O,  I  hate  thee  !  "  came  again 
The  senses  of  the  shipwright ;  and  he,  moved. 
And  looking,  as  one  'mazed,  distressfully 
Upon  the  mighty,  said,  "  One  called  on  God  : 
Where  is  ray  God?    If  God  have  need  of  me, 
Let  Him  come  down  and  touch  my  lips  with  strength, 
Or  dying  I  shall  die." 


IF 


It  came  to  pass, 
"While  he  was  speaking,  that  the  curtains  swayed  ; 
A  rushing  wind  did  move  throughout  the  place, 
And  all  the  pillars  shook,  and  on  the  head 
Of  Noah  the  hair  was  lifted,  and  there  played 
"A  somewhat  as  it  were  a  light,  upon 
His  breast;  then  fell  a  darkness,  and  men  heard 
A  whisper  as  of  one  that  spake.     With  that. 
The  daunted  mighty  ones  kept  silent  watch 
Until  the  wind  had  ceased  and  darkness  fled. 
When  it  grew  light,  there  curled  a  cloud  of  smoke 
From  many  censers  where  the  dragon  lay. 
It  hid  him.     He  had  called  his  ministrants, 
And  bid  them  veil  him  thus,  that  none  might  look  J 
Also  the  folk  who  came  with  Noah  had  fled. 

But  Noah  was  seen,  for  he  stood  up  erect. 
And  leaned  on  Jajjhet's  hand.     Then,  after  pause, 
The  Leader  said,  "  My  brethren,  it  were  well 
(For  naught  we  fear)  to  let  this  sorcerer  speak." 
And  they  did  reach  toward  the  man  their  staves. 
And  cry  with  loud  accord,  "  Hail,  sorcerer,  hail  1 " 

And  he  made  answer,  "  Hail !  I  am  a  man 

That  is  a  shipwright.     I  was  born  afar 

To  Lamech,  him  that  reigns  a  king,  to  wit, 

Over  the  land  of  Jalal.     Majesties, 

I  bring  a  message, — lay  you  it  to  heart ; 

For  there  is  wrath  in  heaven  :  my  God  is  wroth. 

•Prepare  your  houses,  or  I  come,'  saith  lie, 

'  A  J  udge.'     Now,  therefore,  say  not  in  your  hearts, 

*  What  have  we  done  ? '  Your  dogs  may  answer  that, 

To  make  whom  fiercer  for  the  chase  ye  feed 

With  captives  whom  ye  slew  not  in  the  war, 

But  saved  alive,  and  living  throw  to  them 

Dailj-..     Your  wives  may  answer  that,  whose  babes 

Their  firstborn  ye  do  take  and  offer  up 


i 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM.  33 ^^ 

To  this  abhorred  snake,  while  yet  the  milk 

Is  in  their  innocent  mouths, — your  maiden  babes 

Tender.     Your  slaves  may  ansAver  that,— the  gangs 

Whose  eyes  ye  did  put  out  to  make  them  work 

"By  night  unwitting  (yea,  by  multitudes 

They  work  upon  the  wheel  in  chains).     Your  friends 

May  answer  that, — (their  bleached  bones  cry  out), — 

For  ye  did,  wickedly,  to  eat  their  lands, 

Turn  on  their  valleys,  in  a  time  of  peace, 

The  rivers,  and  they,  choking  in  the  night, 

Pied  unavenged.     But  rather  (for  I  leave 

To  tell  of  more,  the  time  Avould  be  so  long 

To  do  it,  and  your  time,  O  mighty  ones. 

Is  short), — but  rather  say,  '  We  sinners  know 

Why  the  Judge  standeth  at  the  door,'  and  turn 

While  yet  there  may  be  respite,  and  repent. 

» 
"  *  Or  else,'  saith  He  that  formed  you,  '  I  swear, 
By  all  the  silence  of  the  time  to  come, 
By  the  solemnities  of  death, — yea,  more. 
By    Mine    own    power    and    love    which    ye    have 

scorned, — 
That  I  will  come.     I  will  command  the  clouds. 
And  raining  they  shall  rain  ;  yea,  I  will  stir 
With  all  my  storms  the  ocean  for  your  sake, 
And  break  for  you  the  boundary  of  the  deep. 

**  *  Then  shall  the  mighty  mourn. 

"  '  Should  I  forbear, 
That  have  been  patient  ?     I  will  not  forbear  ! 
For  yet,'  saith  lie,  '  the  weak  cry  out ;  for  yet 
The  little  ones  do  languish  ;  and  the  slave 
Lifts  up  to  Me  his  chain.     I,  therefore,  I 
Will  hear  them.     I  by  death  will  scatter  you  ; 
Yea,  and  by  death  will  draw  them  to  My  breast, 
And  gather  them  to  peace. 


_1 


332  A  SrOA'V  OF  DOOM. 


"  'But  yet,'  saitliUe, 

*  Repent,  and  turn  you.     Wherefore  will  ye  ilie  ? ' 

"  Turn  then,  O  turn,  while  yet  the  enemy 
Untamed  of  man  fatefully  moans  afar  ; 
For  if  ye  will  not  turn,  the  doom  is  near. 
Then  shall  the  crested  wave  make  sport,  and  beat 
You  mighty  at  your  doors.     Will  ye  be  wroth  ? 
Will  ye  forbid  it  ?    Monsters  of  the  deep 
Shall  suckle  in  your  palaces  their  young, 
And  swim  atween  your  hangings,  all  of  them 
Costly  with  broidered  work,  and  rare  with  gold 
And  white  and  scarlet  (there  did  ye  oppress, — 
There  did  ye  make  you  vile);  but  ye  shall  lie 
Meekly,  and  storm  and  wind  shall  rage  above, 
And  urge  the  weltering  wave. 

"  '  Yet,'  saith  thy  God, 

•  Son,'  ay,  to  each  of  you  He  saith,  *  O  son, 
Made  in  My  image,  beautiful  and  strong. 

Why  wilt  thou  die  ?     Thy  Father  loves  thee  well. 
Repent  and  turn  thee  from  thine  evil  ways, 
O  son  1  and  no  more  dare  the  wrath  of  love. 
Live  for  thy  Father's  sake  that  formed  thee. 
Why  wilt  thou  die  ?  '     Uere  will  I  make  an  end." 

Now  ever  on  his  dais  the  dragon  lay. 
Feigning  to  sleep  ;  and  all  the  mighty  ones 
Were  wroth,  and  chided,  some  against  the  woe. 
And  some  at  whom  the  sorcerer  they  had  named, — 
Some  at  their  fellows,  for  the  younger  sort — 
As  men  the  less  acquaint  with  deeds  of  blood. 
And  given  to  learning  and  the  arts  of  peace 
(Their  fathers  liaving  crushed  rebellion  out 
Before  their  time) — lent  favorable  ears. 
They  said,  "  A  man,  or  false  or  fanatic. 
May  claim  good  audience  if  he  fill  our  ears 
With  what  is  strange  :  and  we  would  hear  again." 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM.  333 

Tlie  Leader  said,  "  An  audience  hath  been  given. 
The  man  hath  spoken,  and  his  words  are  naught  j 
A  feeble  threatener,  with  a  foohsh  threat, 
And  it  is  not  our  manner  that  we  sit 
Beyond  the  noonday ;  "  then  they  grandly  rose, 
A  stalwart  crowd,  and  with  their  Leader  moved 
To  the  tones  of  harping,  and  the  beat  of  shawms, 
And  the  noise  of  pipes,  away.     But  some  were  left 
About  the  Master  ;  and  the  feigning  snake 
Couched  on  his  dais. 

Then  one  to  Japhet  said, — 
One   called    "the   Cedar  Tree,"— "  Dost  thou,  too, 

think 
To  reign  upon  our  lands  when  we  lie  drowned  ?  " 
And  Japhet  said,  "  I  think  not,  nor  desire. 
Nor  in  my  heart  consent,  but  that  ye  swear 
Allegiance  to  the  Grod,  and  live."     He  cried. 
To  one  surnamed  "  the  Pine," — "  Brother,  behooves 
That  deep  we  cut  our  names  in  yonder  crag, 
Else  when  this  youth  returns,  his  sons  may  a^k 
Our  names,  and  he  may  answer,  '  Matters  nut, 
For  my  part  I  forget  them.'  " 

Japhet  said, 
"They  might  do  worse  than  that,  they  might  deny 
That  such  as  you  have  ever  been."     With  tliat 
They  answered,  "  No,  thou  dost  not  think  ir,  no!  " 
And  Japhet,  being  chafed,  replied  in  heat, 
"  And  wherefore  ?  if  ye  say  of  what  is  sworn, 
'He  will  not  do  it,'  shall  it  be  more  hard 
For  future  men,  if  any  talk  on  it, 
To  say,   '  lie  did  not  do  it  ? '  "     They  replied, 
With  laughter,  "  Lo  you  !  he  is  stout  with  us. 
And  yet  he  cowered  before  the  poor  old  snake. 
Sirrah,  when  you  are  saved,  we  pray  you  now 
To  bear  our  might  in  mind, — do,  sirrah,  do  ; 


334  ^  STORY  OF  DOOM. 

,  ^ 

And  likewise  tell  your  sons,  *  "  The  Cedar  Tree  " 
Was  a  good  giant,  for  he  struck  ine  not. 
Though  he  was  young  and  full  of  sport,  and  though 
I  taunted  him.'  " 

With  that  they  also  passed. 
Dut  there  remained  who  with  the  shipwright  spoke 
"  How  wilt  thou  certify  to  us  thy  truth  ?  " 
And  he  related  to  them  all  his  ways 
From  the  beginning :  of  the  Voice  that  called  ; 
Moreover,  how  the  ship  of  doom  was  built. 

And  one  made  answer,  "  Shall  the  mighty  God 

Talk  with  a  man  of  wooden  beams  and  bars  ? 

No,  thou  mad  preacher,  no.     If  He,  Eterne, 

Be  ordering  of  His  far  infinitudes, 

And  darkness  cloud  a  world,  it  is  but  chance, 

As  if  the  shadow  of  His  hand  had  fallen 

On  one  that  He  forgot,  and  troubled  it." 

Then  said  the  Master,  "  Yet, — who  told  thee  so?" 

And  from  his  dais  the  feigning  serpent  hissed  : 

"  Preacher,  the  light  within,  it  was  that  shined, 

And  told  him  so.     The  pious  will  have  dread 

Him  to  declare  such  as  ye  rashly  told. 

The  course  of  God  is  one.     It  likes  not  us 

To  think  of  Him  as  being  acquaint  Avith  change: 

It  were  beneath  Him.     Nay,  the  finished  earth 

Is  left  to  her  great  masters.     They  must  rule  ; 

They  do  ;  and  I  have  set  myself  between, — 

A  visible  thing  for  worsliip,  sith  His  face 

(For  He  is  hard)  He  showeth  not  to  men. 

Yea,  I  have  set  myself  'twixt  God  and  man, 

To  be  interpreter,  and  teach  mankind 

A  pious  lesson  by  my  piety. 

He  loveth  not,  nor  hateth,  nor  desires, — 

It  were  beneath  Him." 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM.  335 


And  the  Master  said, 
"Thou  li-est.     Thou  Avouldst  he  away  the  world. 
If  He  whom  thou  hast  dared  to  speak  against 
Would  suffer  it."     "  I  may  not  chide  with  thee," 
It  answered,  "  NOW  ;  but  if  there  come  such  time 
A.S  thou  hast  prophesied,  as  I  now  reign 
In  all  men's  sight,  shall  my  dominion  then  , 

Reach  to  be  mighty  in  their  souls.     Thou  too  i 

Shalt  feel  it,  prophet."     And  he  lowered  his  head. 

Then  quoth  the  Leader  of  the  young  men  :  "  Sir, 
We  scorn  you  not ;  speak  further  ;  yet  our  thought 
First  answer.     Not  but  by  a  miracle 
Can  this  thing  be.     The  fashion  of  the  world 
We  heretofore  have  never  known  to  change  ; 
And  will  God  change  it  now  ?  " 

He  then  replied : 
•'  What  is  thy  thought  ?    There  is  no  miracle  ? 
There  is  a  great  one,  which  thou  hast  not  read. 
And  never  shalt  escape.     Thyself,  O  man. 
Thou  art  the  miracle.     Lo,  if  thou  sayest, 
•  I  am  one,  and  fashioned  like  the  gracious  world, 
Red  clay  is  all  my  make,  myself,  my  whole, 
And  not  my  habitation,'  then  thy  sleep 
Shall  give  thee  wings  to  play  among  the  rays 
O'  the  morning.     If  thy  thought  be,  '  I  am  one, — 
A  spirit  among  spirits, — and  the  world 
A  dream  my  spirit  dreameth  ofj  my  dream 
Being  all,'  the  dominating  mountains  strong 
Shall  not  for  that  forbear  to  take  thy  bi-eath, 
And  rage  with  all  their  winds,  and  beat  thee  back, 
And  beat  thee  down  when  thou  wouldst  set  thy  feet 
Upon  their  awful  crests.     Ay,  thou  thyself. 
Being  in  the  world  and  of  the  world,  thyself, 
Hast  breathed  in  breath  from  Him  that   made   the 
world. 


336  A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 

Thou  dost  inherit,  as  thy  Maker's  son, 
That  Avhich  He  is,  and  that  which  He  hath  made : 
Thou  art  thy  Father's  copy  of  Himself, — 
Thou  art  thy  Father's  miracle. 

"  Behold, 
He  buildeth  up  the  stars  in  companies  ; 
He  made  for  them  a  law.     To  man  He  said, 
'  Freely  I  give  thee  freedom.'     What  remains  ? 
O,  it  remains,  if  thou,  the  image  of  God, 
Wilt  reason  well,  that  thou  shalt  know  His  ways  ; 
But  first  thou  must  be  loyal, — love,  O  man, 
Thy  Father,— hearken  when  He  pleads  with  thee 
For  there  is  something  left  of  Him  e'en  now,— 
A  witness  for  thy  Father  in  thy  soul. 
Albeit  thy  better  state  thou  hast  foregone. 

"  Now,  then,  be  still,  and  think  not  in  thy  soul, 

'  The  rivers  in  their  course  forever  run, 

And  turn  not  from  it.     He  is  like  to  them 

Who   made   them.'      Think   the  rather,  '  With  my 

foot 
I  have  turned  the  rivers  from  their  ancient  way 
To  water  grasses  that  were  fading.     What  1 
Is  God  my  Father  as  the  river  wave, 
That  yet  descendeth, — like  the  lesser  thing 
He  made,  and  not  like  me,  a  living  son, 
That  changed  the  watercourse  to  suit  his  will  ? ' 

"  Man  is  the  miracle  in  nature.     God 

Is  the  OifB  Miracle  to  man.    Behold, 

'  There  is  a  God,'  thou  sayest.     Thou  sayest  well : 

In  that  thou  sayest  all.     To  Be  is  more 

Of  Avonderful  than,  being,  to  have  %vrought, 

Or  reigned,  or  rested. 

"  Hold  then  there,  conten.'^ ; 
Learn  that  to  love  is  the  one  way  to  know 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM.  -^37 

Or  God  or  man  :  it  is  not  love  received 

That  maketh  man  to  know  the  inner  Hfe 

Of  them  that  love  him  ;  his  own  love  bestowed 

Shall  do  it.     Love  thy  Father,  and  no  more 

His  doings  shall  be  strange.     Thou  shalt  not  fret 

At  any  counsel,  then,  that  He  will  send, — 

No,  nor  rebel,  albeit  Me  have  with  thee 

Great  reservations.     Know,  to  Be  is  more 

Than  to  have  acted  ;  yea,  or,  after  rest 

And  patience,  to  have  risen  and  been  wroth, 

Broken  the  sequence  of  an  ordered  earth, 

And  troubled  nations." 

Then  the  dragon  sighed. 
"  Poor  fanatic,"  quoth  he,  "  thou  speakest  well. 
Would  I  were  like  thee,  for  thy  faith  is  strong, 
Albeit  thy  senses  wander.     Yea,  good  sooth, 
My  masters,  let  us  not  despise,  but  learn 
Fresh  loyalty  from  this  poor  loyal  soul. 
Let  us  go  forth — (myself  will  also  go 
To  head  you) — and  do  sacrifice  ;  for  that. 
We  know,  is  pleasing  to  the  mighty  God : 
But  as  for  building  many  arks  of  wood, 
O  majesties  !  when  He  shall  counsel  you 
Himself,  then  build.     What  say  you,  shall  it  be 
An  hundred  oxen, — fat,  well  liking,  white  ? 
An  hundred  ?  why,  a  thousand  were  not  much 
To  such  as  you."     Then  Noah  lift  uphis  arms 
To  heaven,  and  cried,  "  Thou  aged  shape  of  sin, 
The  Lord  rebuke  thee." 

BOOK  VIII. 

Then  one  ran,  crying,  while  Niloiya  wrougut, 
"The  Master  cometh  !  "  and  she  went  within 
To  adorn  herself  for  meeting  him.     And  Sliem 

Went  forth  and  talked  with  Japhet  in  the  field, 

22 


33^  A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 


And  said,  "  Is  It  well,  my  brother  ?  "     He  replied, 
"  Well  I  and,  I  pray  you,  is  it  well  at  home  ?  " 

But  Shem  made  answer,  "  Can  a  house  be  well, 
If  he  that  should  command  it  bides  afar  ? 
Yet  well  is  thee,  because  a  fair  free  maid 
Is  found  to  wed  thee  ;  and  they  bring  her  in 
This  day  at  sundown.     Therefore  is  much  hasto 
To  cover  thick  with  costly  webs  the  floor, 
And  pluck  and  cover  thick  the  same  with  leaves 
Of  all  sweet  herbs, — I  warrant,  ye  shall  hear 
No  footfall  where  she  treadeth  ;  and  the  seats 
Are  ready,  spread  with  robes ;  the  tables  set 
With  golden  baskets,  red  pomegranates  shred 
To  fill  them  ;  and  the  rubied  censers  smoke, 
neaped  up  with  ambergris  and  cinnamon, 
And  frankincense  and  cedar." 

Japhet  said, 
*'  I  will  betroth  her  to  me  straight ;  and  went 
(Yet  labored  he  with  sore  disquietude) 
To  gather  grapes,  and  reap  and  bind  the  sheaf 
For  his  betrothal.     And  his  brother  spake, 
*'  Where  is  our  father  ?  doth  ho  preach  to-day  ?  " 
And  .Taphet  answered,  "  Yea.     Ue  said  to  me, 
'  Go  forward  ;  I  will  follow  when  the  folk 
By  yonder  mountain-hold  I  shall  have  warned.'  " 

And   Shem  replied,   "How   thinkest  thou  ?  — thine 

ears 
Have  heard  him  oft."     He  answered,  "  I  do  think 
These  be  the  last  days  of  this  old  fair  world." 

Then  he  did  tell  him  of  the  giant  folk  : 
Uow  they,  than  he,  were  taller  by  the  head  ; 
How  one  must  stride  that  will  ascend  the  stejjs 
That  lead  to  their  wide  halls  ;  and  how  they  dravo, 


^  STOKY  OF  DOCTJ.  33O 


With  manful  shouts,  the  uiaminoth  to  the  north  % 
And  how  the  talking  dragon  lied  and  fawned, 
They  seated  proudly  on  their  ivory  thrones, 
And  scorned  him  :  and  of  their  peaked  hoods, 
And  garments  wrought  upon,  each  with  the  talo 
Of  him  that  wore  it, — all  his  manful  deeds 
(Yea,  and  about  their  skirts  were  effigies 
Of  kings  that  they  had  slain  ;    and  some,   whoso 

SAvords 
Many  had  pierced,  wore  vestures  all  of  red. 
To  signify  much  blood) :  and  of  their  pride 
He  told,  but  of  the  vision  in  the  tent 
He  told  him  not. 

And  when  they  reached  the  houso, 
Niloiya  met  them,  and  to  Japhet  cried, 
"  All  hail,  right  fortunate  !  Lo,  I  have  found 
A  maid.     And  now  thou  hast  done  well  to  reap 
The  late  ripe  corn."     So  he  went  in  with  her, 
And  she  did  talk  Avith  him  right  motherly : 
"  It  hath  been  full  told  me  how  ye  loathed 
To  wed  thy  father's  slave  ;  yea,  she  herself, 
Did  she  not  all  declare  to  me  ?  " 

# 
•  He  said, 

"  Yet  is  thy  damsel  fair,  and  wise  of  heart." 
"Yea,"  quoth  his  mother  ;  "  she  made  clear  to  mo 
How  ye  did  Aveep,  my  son,  and  ye  did  vow, 
*  I  will  not  take  her  !  '     Now,  it  Avas  not  I 
That  Avrought  to  have  it  so."     And  he  replied, 
"  I  know  it."     Quoth  the  mother,  "  It  is  well  ; 
For  that  same  cause  is  laughter  in  my  heart." 
"  But  she  is  SAveet  of  language,"  Japhet  said. 
"  Ay,"  quoth  Niloiya,  "  and  thy  wife  no  less 
Whom  thou  shalt  wed  anon, — forsooth,  anon, — 
It  is  a  lucky  hour.     Thou  Avilt  ?  "     He  said, 
"  I  will."     And  iaphet  laid  the  sieuder  sheai 


340  A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 

From  off  his  shoulder,  and  he  said,  "  Behold, 

My  father  !  "     Then  Niloiya  turned  herself, 

Andlo!  the  shipwright  stood.     "All  haill "  quotb 

she. 
And  bowed  herself,  and  kissed  him  on  the  mouth  3 
But  while  she  spake  with  him,  sorely  he  sighed  ; 
And  she  did  hang  about  his  neck  the  robe 
Of  feasting,  and  she  poured  upon  his  hands 
Clear  water,  and  anointed  him,  and  set 
Before  him  bread. 

And  Japhe^  said  to  him, 
"  My  father,  my  beloved,  wilt  thou  yec 
Be  sad  because  of  scorning?     Eat,  this  day  ; 
For  as  an  angel  in  their  eyes  thou  art 
Who  stand  before  thee."     But  he  answered,  "  Peace  \ 
Thy  words  are  wide." 

And  when  Niloiya  heard, 
She  said,  "  Is  this  a  time  for  mirth  of  heart 
And  wine  ?     l^eliold,  I  thought  to  wed.my  son, 
Even  this  Japhet  ;  but  is  this  a  time, 
When  sad  is  he  to  whom  is  my  desire, 
And  lying  under  sorrow  as  from  God  ?  " 

He  answered,  "  Yea,  it  is  a  time  of  times  ; 
Bring  in  the  maid."     Niloiya  said,  "  The  maid. 
That  first  I  spoke  on,  shall  not  Japhet  wed  ; 
It  lik(!s  not  her,  nor  yet  it  like.«  not  me. 
But  1  have  found  another;  yea,  good  sooth. 
The  damsel  will  not  tarry,  she  will  come 
With  all  her  slaves  by  sundown." 

And  sue  said, 
"  Con)fort  thy  heart,  and  eat :  moreover,  know 
Ilow  that  thy  great  work  even  to-day  is  done. 
Sir,  thy  great  ship  is  finished,  and  tlie  folk 
(For  1,  according  to  thy  will,  have  paid 


/i  STORY  OT  DOOM.  34* 

All  that  was  left  us  to  them  for  their  wage) 
Have  brought,  as  to  a  storehouse,  flour  of  wheat, 
Honey  and  oil, — much  victual  ;  yea, and  fruits, 
Curtains  and  household  gear.     And,  sir,  they  say 
It  is  Thy  will  to  take  it  for  thy  hold. 
Our  fastness  and  abode."     He  answered,  "  Yea, 
Else  wherefore  was  it  built  ?"     She  said,  "  Grood  sir, 
I  pray  you  make  us  not  the  whole  earth's  scorn. 
And  now,  to-morrow  in  thy  father's  house 
Is  a  great  feast,  and  weddings  are  toward ; 
Let  be  the  ship,  till  after,  for  thy  words 
Have  ever  been,   '  If  God  shall  send  a  flood, 
There  will  I  dwell ; '  I  pray  you  therefore  wait 
At  least  till  He  doth  send  it." 

And  he  turned. 
And  answered  nothing.     Now  the  sun  was  low 
While  yet  she  spake  ;  and  Japhet  came  to  them 
In  goodly  raiment,  and  upon  his  arm 
The  garment  of  betrothal.     And  with  that 
A  noise,  and  then  brake  in  a  woman-slave 
And  Amarant.     This,  with  folding  of  her  handa, 
Did  say  full  meekly,  "  If  I  c'o  olfend. 
Yet  have  not  I  been  willing  to  offend  ; 
For  now  this  woman  will  not  be  denied 
Herself  to  tell  her  errand. 

A  nd  they  sat. 
Then  spoke  the  woman,  "  If  I  do  offend, 
Pray  you  forgive  the  bond-slave,  for  her  tongue 
Is  for  her  mistress.     '  Lo,'  my  mistress  saith, 
'  Put  off  thy  bravery,  bridegroom  ;  fold  away, 
Mother,  thy  webs  of  pride,  thy  costly  robes 
Woven  of  many  colors.     We  have  heard 
Thy  master.     Lo,  to-day  right  evil  things 
He  prophesied  to  us  that  wc/e  his  friends  \ 
Therefore,  my  answer : — (iod  do  fo  to  me  j 
Yea,  Gi-od  do  so  to  me,  more  also,  moro 


342  A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 


Than  he  did  threaten,  if  my  damsel's  foot 
Evor  draw  nigh  thy  door.'  " 

And  when  she  heard, 
Niloiya  sat  amazed,  in  grief  of  soul. 
But  japhet  came  unto  the  slave,  where  low 
She  bowed  herself  for  fear.     He  said,  "Depart; 
Say  to  thy  mistress,  '  It  is  well.'  "     With  that 
She  turned  herself,  and  she  made  haste  to  flee, 
Lest  any,  for  those  evil  words  she  brought. 
Would  smite  her.     But  the  bondmaid  of  the  hou^a 
Lift  up  her  hand  and  said,  "  If  I  offend, 
It  was  not  of  my  heart :  thy  dauisel  knew 
Naught  of  this  matter."     And  he  held  to  her 
llis  hand  and  touched  her,  and  said,  "  Amarant  \  " 
And  when  she  looked  upon  him,  she  did  take 
And  spread  before  her  face  her  radiant  locks. 
Trembling.     And  Japhet  said,  "  Lift  up  thy  face, 

0  fairest  of  the  daughters,  thy  fair  face  ; 

For,  lo  !  the  bridegroom  standeth  with  the  robe 
Of  thy  betrothal !  " — and  he  took  her  locks 
In  his  two  hands  to  part  them  from  her  brow, 
And  laid  them  on  her  shoulders  ;  and  he  said, 
''Sweet  are  the  blushes  of  thy  face,"  and  put 
The  robe  upon  her,  having  said,  "  Behold, 

1  have  repented  me  ;  and  oft  by  night. 

In  the  waste  wilderness.  Avhile  all  things  slept, 
I  thought  upon  thy  words,  for  they  were  sweet. 
•'  For  this  I  make  thee  free.     And  now  thyself 
Art  loveliest  in  mine  eyes  ;  I  look,  and  lo  1 
Thou  art  of  beauty  more  than  any  thought 
I  had  concerning  thee.     Let,  then,  this  i-obe, 
Wrought  on  with  imagery  of  fruitful  bough, 
And  graceful  leaf,  and  birds  with  tender  eyes, 
Cover  the  ripples  of  thy  tawny  hair." 
So,  when  she  held  hor  peace,  he  Ijiought  her  nigh 
To  hear  the  speech  of  wedlock  ;  ay,  he  took 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM.  343 


The  golden  cup  of  wine  to  drink  with  her, 
And  laid  the  sheaf  upon  her  arms.     He  said, 
♦'  Like  as  my  fathers  in  the  older  days 
Led  home  the  daughters  whom  they  chose,  do  I  5 
Like  as  they  said,  '  Mine  honor  have  I  set 
Upon  thy  head  ! '  do  I.     Eat  of  my  bread, 
Rule  in  my  house,  be  mistress  of  my  slaves, 
And  mother  of  my  children." 

And  he  brought 
The  damsel  to  his  father,  saying,  "  Behold 
My  wife  !  I  have  betrothed  her  to  myself  ; 
1  pray  you,  kiss  her."     And  the  Master  did: 
Ee  said,  "  Be  mother  of  a  multitude, 
And  let  them  to  their  father  even  so 
Be  found  as  he  is  found  to  me." 

With  that 
She  answered,  "Let  this  woman,  sir,  find  grace 
And  favor  in  your  sight." 

And  Japhet  said, 
"  Sweet  mother,  I  have  wed  the  maid  ye  chose 
And  brought  me  first.     I  leave  her  in  thy  hand  ; 
Have  care  on  her,  till  I  shall  come  again 
And  ask  her  of  thee."     So  they  went  apart, 
He  and  his  father,  to  the  marriage  feast. 


BOOK  IX. 

The  prayer  of  Noah.     The  man  went  forth  by  night; 

A.nd  listened  ;  and  the  earth  was  dark  and  still. 

And  he  was  driven  of  his  great  distress 

Into  the  forest :  but  the  birds  of  night 

Sang  sweetly  ;  and  he  fell  upon  his  face. 

And  cried,  "  God,  God  I     Thy  billows  and  Thy  waves 

Have  swallowed  up  my  soul. 


344  ^  STOR  V  OF  DOOM. 


"  Where  is  my  God  ? 
For  I  have  somewhat  yet  to  plead  with  Thee ; 
For  I  have  walked  the  strands  of  Thy  great  deep, 
Heard  the  dull  thunder  of  its  rage  afar, 
And  its  dread  moaning.     O,  the  field  is  sweet, — 
Spare  it.     The  delicate  woods  make  white  their  trees 
With  blossom, — spare  them.     Life  is  sweet ;  behold 
There  is  much  cattle,  and  the  wild  and  tame, 
Father,  do  ieed  in  quiet, — spare  them. 

"  God  I 
Where  is  my  God  ?    The  long  wave  doth  not  rear 
Her  ghostly  crest  to  lick  the  forest  up, 
And  like  a  chief  in  battle  fall, — not  yet. 
The  lightnings  pour  not  down,  from  ragged  holes 
In  heaven,  the  torment  of  their  forked  tongues. 
And,  like  fell  serpents,  dart  and  sting, — not  yet. 
The  winds  awake  not,  with  their  awful  wings 
To  winnow,  even  as  chaff,  from  out  their  track, 
All  that  withstandeth,  and  bring  down  the  pride 
Of  all  things  strong  and  all  things  high, — 

•'  Not  yet, 
O,  let  it  not  be  yet.     Where  is  my  God  ? 

How  am  I  saved,  if  1  and  mine  be  saved 

Alone?     I  am  not  saved,  for  I  have  loved 

My  country  and  my  kin.     Must  I,  Thy  thrall. 

Over  their  lands  be  lord  when  they  are  gone  ? 

I  would  not :  spare  them,  Mighty.     Spare  Thyself, 

For  Thou  dost  love  them  greatly, — and  if  not  ..." 

Another  praying  unremote,  a  Voice 
Calm  as  the  solitude  between  wide  stars. 

"  Where  is  my  God,  who  loveth  this  lost  world, — 
Lost  from  its  place  and  name,  but  won  for  Thee  ? 
Where  is  my  mxiltitude,  my  multitude. 
That  I  shall  gather  ?  "     And  white  smoke  went  up 


^  STO/?V  OF  DOOM.  345 

Prom  incense  that  was  burning,  but  there  gleamed 

No  light  of  fire,  save  dimly  to  reveal 

The  whiteness  rising,  as  the  jjrayer  of  him 

That  mourned.     "  My  God,  appear  for  me,  appear; 

Give  me  my  multitude,  for  it  is  mine. 

The  bitterness  of  death  I  have  not  feared, 

To-morrow  shall  Thy  courts,  O  God,  be  full. 

Then  shall  the  captive  from  his  bonds  go  free, 

Then  shall  the  thrall  find  rest,  that  knew  not  rest 

From  labor  and  from  blows.     The  sorrowful — 

That  said  of  joy,  '  What  is  it  ? '  and  of  songs, 

'  We  have  not  heard  them' — shall  be  glad  and  singj 

Then  shall  the  little  ones  that  knew  not  Thee, 

And  such  as  heard  not  of  Thee,  see  Thy  face, 

And,  seeing,  dwell  content." 

The  prayer  of  JSToali. 
He  cried  out  in  the  darkness,  "  Hear,  O  God, 
Hear  Him  :  hear  this  one  ;  through  the  gates  of  death, 
If  life  be  all  past  praying  for,  O  give 
To  Thy  great  multitude  a  way  to  peace  j 
Give  them  to  Him. 

"  But  yet,"  said  he,  "  O  yet. 
If  there  be  respite  for  the  terrible, 
The  proud,  yea,  such  as  scorn  Thee, — and  if  not 
Let  not  mine  eyes  behold  their  fall." 

He  cried, 
"  Forgive.    I  have  not  done  Thy  work,  Great  .Judge, 
With  a  perfect  heart ;  I  have  but  half  believed, 
While  in  accustomed  language  I  have  warned  3 
And  now  there  is  no  more  to  do,  no  place 
For  my  repentance,  yea,  no  hour  remains 
For  doing  of  that  work  again.     O  lost, 
Lost  world  !  "     And  while  he  prayed,  the   daylight 
dawned. 


346  A  STORY  OF  DOOM. 

And  Noah  went  up  into  the  ship,  and  sat 
Before  the  Lord.     And  all  was  still ;  and  now 
In  that  great  quietness  the  sun  came  up, 
And  there  were  marks  across  it,  as  it  were 
The  shadow  of  a  Hand  upon  the  sun, — 
Three  fingers  dark  and  dread,  and  afterward 
There  rose  a  white  thick  mist,  that  peacefully 
Folded  the  fair  earth  in  her  funeral  shroud, — 
The  earth  that  gave  no  token,  save  that  now 
There  fell  a  little  trembling  under  foot. 

And  Noah  went  down,  and  took  and  hid  his  faoo 
Behind  his  mantle,  saying,  "  I  have  made 
Great  preparation,  and  it  may  be  yet. 
Beside  my  house,  whom  I  did  charge  t<i  come 
This  day  to  meet  me,  there  may  enter  in 
Many  that  yesternight  thought  scorn  of  all 
My  bidding."     And  l)ecause  the  fog  was  thick, 
He  said,  "  Forbid  it,  Heaven,  if  such  there  be, 
That  they  should  miss  the  way."     And  even  then 
There  was  a  noise  of  weeping  and  lament ; 
The  words  of  them  that  Avcre  affrighted,  yea. 
And  cried  for  grief  of  heart.     There  came  to  him 
The  mother  and  her  children,  and  they  cried, 
"  Speak,  father,  what  is  this  V  What  hast  thou  done  ?  " 
And  when  he  lifted  up  his  face,  he  saw 
Jajihet,  his  well-beloved,  where  he  stood 
Apart ;  and  Amarant  leaned  upon  his  breast, 
And  hid  her  face,  for  she  was  sore  afraid  ; 
And  lo  !  the  robes  of  her  betrothal  gleamed 
White  in  the  deadly  gloom. 

And  at  his  feet 
The  wives  of  his  two  other  sons  did  kneel, 
And  wring  their  hands. 

One  cried,  "  O,  speak  to  ii.s ; 
We  are  affrighted  ;  we  have  dreamed  a  dream, 


A  STORY  OF  DOOM.  '      347 


Each  to  herself.     For  me,  I  saw  in  mine 
The  grave  old  angels,  like  to  shepherds,  walk, 
Much  cattle  following  them.     Thy  daughter  iookod, 
And  they  did  enter  here." 

The  otber  lay 
And  moaned.  "  Alas!  O  father,  for  my  di-cam 
Was  evil :  lo,  I  heard  when  it  was  dark, 
I  heard  two  wicked  ones  contend  for  me. 
One  said,  '  And  wherefore  should  this  woman  live,, 
"When  only  for  her  children,  and  for  her, 
Is  woe  and  degradation  ?  '     Then  he  laughed. 
The  other  crying,  '  Let  alone,  O  Prince  ; 
Hinder  her  not  to  live  and  bear  much  seed, 
Because  1  hate  her.'  " 

But  he  said,  "  Rise  up, 
Daughters  of  Noah,  for  I  have  learned  no  words 
To  comfort  you."     Then  spake  her  lord  to  her, 
"  Peace  I  or  1  swear  that  for  thy  dream  mysell 
Will  hate  thee  also." 

And  Niloiya  said, 
"  My  sons,  if  one  of  you  will  hear  my  words, 
Go  now,  look  out,  and  tell  me  of  the  day, 
How  fares  it  ?  " 

And  the  fateful  darkness  grew. 
But  Shem  went  up  to  do  his  mother's  will ; 
And  all  was  one  as  though  the  frighted  earth 
Quivered  and  fell  a-trembling  ;  then  they  hid 
Their  faces  every  one,  till  he  returned. 
And  spake  not.     "Nay,"   they   cried,   "what  basX 

thou  seen  ? 
O,  is  it  come  to  this?  "     He  answered  them, 
••  The  door  is  £hut." 


348  CONTRASTED  SONGS. 


CONTRASTED  SONGS. 

SAILII^a  BETOND  SEAS. 

{Old  Style.) 

Methought  the  stars  were  blinking  bright, 

And  the  old  brig's  sails  unfurled  ; 
1  said,  "  I  will  sail  to  my  love  this  night 

At  the  other  side  of  the  world." 
I  stepped  aboard,— we  sailed  so  fast, — 

The  sun  shot  up  from  the  bourn  ; 
But  a  dove  that  perched  upon  the  mast 
Did  mourn,  and  mourn,  and  mourn. 
O  fair  dove  1  O  fond  dove  ! 

And  dove  with  the  white  breast, 
Let  me  alone,  the  dream  is  my  own. 
And  my  heart  is  full  of  rest. 

My  true  love  fares  on  this  great  hill, 

Feeding  his  sheep  for  aye  ; 
1  looked  in  his  hut,  but  all  was  still, 

My  love  was  gone  away. 
I  went  to  gaze  in  the  forest  creek, 

And  the  dove  mourned  on  apace  ; 
No  llame  did  flash,  nor  fair  blue  reek 
Rose  up  to  show  me  his  place. 
O  last  love  1  O  first  love  1 

My  love  with  the  true  heart. 
To  think  1  have  come  to  this  your  Ik  .me. 
And  yet — we  are  apart  I 

My  love  I     lie  stood  at  my  right  hand, 

ills  eyes  were  grave  and  swoet. 
Methought  lie  said,  "In  this  far  laud, 

O,  is  it  thus  we  mtiocjf 


REMONSTRANCE.  349 

Ah,  maid  most  dear,  I  am  not  here  ; 

1  have  no  place, — no  part, — 
No  dweUing  more  by  sea  or  shore, 
But  only  in  thy  heart." 
O  fair  dove  1  O  fond  dove  ! 

Till  night  rose  over  the  bourn, 
The  dove  on  the  mast,  as  we  sailed  fast, 
Did  mourn,  and  mourn,  and  mourn. 


REMONSTRANCE. 

Daughters  of  Eve  I  your  mother  did  not  well : 
She  laid  the  apple  in  your  father's  hand, 

And  we  have  read,  O  wonder  !  what  befell  — 
The  man  was  not  deceived,  nor  yet  could  stand  ; 

He  chose  to  lose,  for  love  of  her,  his  throne, — 

With  her  could  die,  but  could  not  live  alone. 

Daughters  of  Eve  I  he  did  not  fall  so  low, 
Nor  fall  so  far,  as  that  sweet  woman  fell  : 

For  something  better,  than  as  gods  to  know, 
That  husband  in  that  home  left  off  to  dwell : 

For  this,  till  love  be  reckoned  less  than  lore. 

Shall  man  be  first  and  best  for  evermore. 

Daughters  of  Eve  1  it  was  for  your  dear  sake 
The  world's  first  hero  died  an  uncrowned  king  \ 

But  God's  great  pity  touched  the  grand  mistake, 
And  made  his  married  love  a  sacred  thing : 

For  yet  his  nobler  sons,  if  aught  be  true, 

Find  the  lost  Eden  in  their  love  to  you. 


350  SOATG  FOR  THE  NIGHT  OF 


SONG-   FOR  THE  NIGHT   OP   CHRIST'S  RESUR- 

RECTION. 

{An  Humble  Imitation.) 


And  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on  the   charmed 

wave." 


It  is  the  noon  of  night, 
And  the  world's  Great  Light 
Gone  out,  she  widow-like  doth  carry  her  : 
The  moon  hath  veiled  her  face, 
Nor  looks  on  that  dread  place 
Where  He  lieth  dead  in  sealed  sepulchre  ; 
And  heaven  and  hades,  emptied,  lend 
Their  flocking  multitudes  to  watch  and  wait  the  end. 

Tier  above  tier  they  rise. 

Their  wings  new  line  the  skies, 
And  shed  out  comforting  Hglit  among  the  stars ; 

But  they  of  the  other  place 

The  heavenly  signs  deface, 
The  gloomy  brand  of  hell  their  brightness  mars  ; 

Yet  high  they  sit  in  thronc'd  state, — 
It  is  the  hour  of  darkness  to  them  dedicate. 

And  first  and  highest  set. 

Where  the  black  sliades  are  met, 
The  lord  of  night  and  hades  loans  him  down  ; 

His  gleaming  eyeballs  show 

More  awful  than  the  glow 
Which  hangeth  by  tlie  points  of  his  dj-ead  crown; 

And  at  his  feet,  where  Hghtnings  i)lay. 
The  fatal  sisters  sit  and  wee^j,  and  curse  their  day. 


Lo  !  one,  with  eyes  all  wide, 
As  she  were  sight  denied, 
Sits  blindly  feeling  at  her  distaff  old  j 
One,  as  distraught  with  woe, 
Letting  the  spindle  go, 
Her  starry-sprinkled  gown  doth  shivering  fold  ; 
And  one  right  mournful  hangs  her  head, 
Complaining,  "  Woe  is  me  !  I  may  not  cut  the  threu,J. 

"All  men,  of  every  birth. 
Yea,  great  ones  of  the  earth, 
Kings  and  their  councillors,  have  I  drawn  down  ; 
But  I  am  held  of  Thee, — 
Why  dost  Thou  trouble  me, 
To   bring   me   up,    dead   King,    that   keep'st  Thy 
crown  ? 
Yet  for  all  courtiers  hast  but  ten 
Lowly,  unlettered,  Gralilean  fishermen. 

"Olympian  heights  are  bare 

Of  whom  men  worshipped  there. 
Immortal  feet  their  snows  may  print  no  more  ; 

Their  stately  powers  below 

Lie  desolate,  nor  know 
This  thirty  years  Thessalian  grove  or  shore  ; 

But  I  am  elder  far  than  they  ; — 
Where  is  the  sentence  writ  that  I  must  pass  away  ¥ 

"  Art  thou  come  up  for  this, 
Dark  regent,  awful  Dis  ? 
And  hast  thou  moved  the  deep  to  mark  our  end- 
ing? 
And  stirred  the  dens  beneath 
To  see  us  eat  of  death. 
With  all  the  scoffing  heavens  toward  us  bonding  ? 
Help!  powers  of  ill,  see  not  us  die!  " 
But  neither  demon  dares,  nor  angel  deigns,  reply. 


:;?«;?  SONG  FOR  THE  NIGHT  OF 

Her  sisters,  fallen  on  sleep, 

Fade  in  the  upper  deep, 
And  their  gn*iin  lord  sits  on,  in  doleful  trance  i 

Till  her  black  veil  she  rends, 

And  with  her  death-shriek  bends 
Downward  the  terrors  of  her  countenance  ; 

Then,  whelmed  in  night  and  no  more  seen, 
Th','y  leave  the  world  a  doubt  if  ever  such  have  beeu. 

And  the  winged  armies  twain 

Their  awful  watch  maintain  ; 
They  mark  the  earth  at  rest  with  her  Great  Dead. 

Behold,  from  Antres  wide. 

Green  Atlas  heave  his  side  ; 
His  moving  woods  their  scarlet  clusters  shed, 

The  swathing  coif  his  front  that  cools, 
And  tawny  lions  lapping  at  liis  palm-edged  poola. 

Then  like  a  heap  of  snow. 

Lying  where  grasses  grow. 
See  glimmering,  while  the  moony  lustres  creep, 

Mild-mannered  Athens,  dight 

In  de\vy  marbles  white, 
Among  her  goddesses  and  gods  asleep  ; 

And,  swaying  on  a  purple  sea. 
The  many  moored  galleys  clustering  at  her  qua> . 

Also,  'neath  palm-trees'  shade, 

Amid  their  camels  laid, 
The  pastoral  tribes  with  all  their  Hocks  at  rest; 

Like  to  those  old-world  folk 

With  whom  two  angels  broke 
The  bread  of  men  at  Abram's  courteous  'quest, 

When,  listening  as  they  prophesied, 
His  desert  princess,  being  reproved,  her  laugh  denied. 

Or  from  tlio  Morixns'  land 
tieo  woraiupped.  JNilua  biaud, 


CHRIST'S  RESURRECTION.  353 

Taking  the  silver  road  he  gave  the  world, 

To  wet  his  ancient  shrine 

With  waters  held  divine, 
And  touch  his  temple  steps  with  wavelets  curled, 

And  list,  ere  darkness  change  to  gray. 
Old  minstrel-throated  Memnon  chanting  in  the  day. 

Moreover,  Indian  glades, 
Where  kneel  the  sun-swart  maids, 
On  Gunga's  flood  their  votive  flowers  to  throw, 
And  launch  i'  the  sultry  night 
Their  burning  cressets  bright, 
Most  like  a  fleet  of  stars  that  southing  go, 
Till  on  her  bosom  prosperously 
She  floats  them  shining  forth  to  sail  the  lulled  sea. 

Nor  bend  they  not  their  eyn 

Where  the  watch-fires  shine, 
By  shepherds  fed,  on  hills  of  Bethlehem  : 

They  mark,  in  goodly  wise. 

The  city  of  David  rise, 
The  gates  and  towers  of  rare  Jerusalem  ; 

And  hear  the  'scaped  Kedron  fret. 
And  night  dews  dropping  from  the  leaves  of  Olivet, 

But  now  the  setting  moon 

To  curtained  lands  must  soon. 
In  her  obedient  fashion,  minister  ; 

She  first,  as  loath  to  go, 

Lets  her  last  silver  flow 
Upon  her  Master's  sealed  sepulchre  ; 

And  trees  that  in  the  garden  spread, 
She  kisseth  all  for  sake  of  His  lowlying  head, 

Then  'neath  the  rim  goes  down  ; 
And  night  with  darker  frown 
Sinks  on  the  fateful  garden  watched  long ; 

23 


354  SONG  FOR  THE  NIGHT  OF 

When  some  despairing  eyes, 
Far  in  the  murky  skies, 
The  unwished  waking  by  their  gloom  foretell ; 
And  blackness  up  the  welkin  swings, 
And  drinks  the  mild  effulgence  from  celestial  wings. 

Last,  with  amazed  cry. 
The  hosts  asunder  fly, 
Leaving  an  empty  gulf  of  'blaokest  hue  ; 
Whence  straightway  shooteth  down, 
By  the  Great  Father  thrown, 
A  mighty  angel,  strong  and  dread  to  view  ; 
And  at  his  fall  the  rocks  are  rent, 
The  waiting  world  doth  quake  with  niortal  tremble- 
ment ; 

The  regions  far  and  near 
Quail  with  a  pause  of  fear, 
More  terrible  than  aught  since  time  began  '^ 
The  winds,  that  dare  not  fleet. 
Drop  at  his  awful  feet. 
And  in  its  bed  wails  the  wide  ocean  ; 
The  flower  of  dawn  forbears  to  blow. 
And  the  oldest  running  river  cannot  skill  to  flow. 

At  stand,  by  that  dread  place. 
He  lifts  his  radiant  face, 
And  looks  to  heaven  with  reverent  love  and  fear  j 
Then,  while  the  welkin  quakes, 
And  muttering  thunder  breaks, 
And  lightnings  shoot  and  ominous  meteors  drear. 
And  all  the  daunted  earth  doth  moan, 
He  from    the  doors  of  death  rolls  back  the  sealed 
stone. — 

—In  regal  quiet  deep. 

Lo,  Que  now  waked  from  sleep  J 


c/TR/sT's  resurrection:  355 


Behold,  He  standeth  in  the  rock-hewn  door  I 

Thy  children  shall  not  die,— 

Peace,  peace,  thy  Lord  is  by  ! 
He  liveth ! — they  shall  live  for  evermore. 

Peace  !  lo,  He  lifts  a  priestly  hand- 
And  blesseth  all  the  sons  of  men  in  every  laudo 

Then,  with  great  dread  and  wail. 

Fall  down,  like  storms  of  hail, 
The  legions  of  the  lost  in  fearful  wise  • 

And  they  whose  blissful  race 

Peoples  the  better  place 
Lift  up  their  wings  to  cover  their  fair  eyes, 

And  through  the  waxing  saffron  brede. 
Till  they  are  lost  in  light,  recede,  and  yet  recede. 

So  while  the  fields  are  dim. 
And  the  red  sun  his  rim 
First  heaves,  in  token  of  his  reign  benign, 
All  stars  the  most  admired, 
Into  their  blue  retired, 
Lie  hid,— the  faded  moon  forgets  to  shine,— 
And,  hurrying  down  the  sphery  way, 
Night  flies  and  sweeps  her  shadow  from  the  paths  of 
day. 

But  look  I  the  Saviour  blest, 

Calm  after  solemn  rest. 
Stands  in  the  garden  'neath  His  olive-boughs  j 

The  earliest  suiile  of  day 

"Doth  on  His  vesture  play. 
And  light  the  majesty  of  His  still  brows  ; 

While  angels  hang  with  wings  outspread, 
Holding  the  new-won  crown  above  His  saintly  head. 


?A^  SONG  OF  MARGARET. 


SONG  OF  MARGARET. 

At,  I  saw  her,  we  have  met, — 

Mari'ied  eyes,  how  sweet  they  be, — 
Are  you  happier,  Margaret, 

Than  you  might  have  been  with  mo  ? 
r^ilence  !  make  no  more  ado  ! 

Did  she  think  I  should  forget  ? 
Matters  nothing,  though  I  knew. 

Margaret,  Margaret, 

Once  those  eyes,  full  sweet,  full  shy, 

Told  a  certain  thing  to  mine  ; 
What  they  told  me  I  put  by, 

O,  so  careless  of  the  sign. 
Such  an  easy  thing  to  take, 

And  I  did  not  want  it  then  ; 
Fool  !  I  wish  my  heart  would  break. 

Scorn  is  hard  on  hearts  of  men. 

Scorn  of  self  is  bitter  work, — 

Each  of  us  has  felt  it  now  : 
Bluest  skies  she  counted  mirk, 

Self-betrayed  of  eyes  and  brow  j 
As  for  me,  I  went  my  way. 

And  a  better  man  drew  nigh, 
Fain  to  earn,  with  long  essay, 

What  the  winner's  hand  threw  by. 

Matters  not  in  deserts  old. 

What  was  born,  and  waxed,  and  yearnod? 
Year  to  year  its  meaning  told, 

I  am  come, — its  deeps  are  learned, — 
Come,  but  there  is  naught  to  say, — 

Married  eyes  with  mine  have  met 
Silence  !  O,  I  had  my  day, 

Margaret,  Margaret. 


SONG  OF  THE  GOING  A  WA  Y.  357 


SONG  OF  THE  GOING  AWAY. 

"  Old  man,  upon  the  green  hillside, 
With  yellow  flowers  besprinkled  o'er;, 

How  long  in  silence  wilt  thou  bide 
At  this  low  stone  door  ? 

**  I  stoop  :  within  'tis  dark  and  still  ; 

But  shadowy  paths  methinks  there  be, 
And  lead  they  far  into  the  hill  ?  " 

"  Traveller,  come  and  see." 

••  'Tis  dark,  'tis  cold,  and  hung  with  gloom  j 

I  care  not  now  within  to  stay ; 
For  thee  and  me  is  scarcely  roomj 

I  will  hence  away." 

"  Not  so,  not  so,  thou  youtjiful  guest. 
Thy  foot  shall  issue  forth  no  more  : 

Behold  the  chamber  of  thy  rest. 
And  the  closing  door  I  " 

"  O,  have  I  'scaped  the  whistling  ball, 
And  striven  on  smoky  Gelds  of  fight, 

And  scaled  the  'leaguered  city's  wall 
In  the  dangerous  night ; 

"  And  borne  my  life  unharmed  still 
Through  foaming  gulfs  of  yeasty  spray, 

To  yield  it  on  a  grassy  hill 
At  the  noon  of  day  ?  " 

*'  Peace  !     Say  thy  prayers,  and  go  to  sleep, 
Till  som2  time.  One  my  seal  shall  break. 

And  deep  shall  answer  unto  deep, 
When  He  crieth,  '  Awake  1 '  " 


3S«  A  LILY  AND  A  LUTE. 


A  LILY  AND  A  LUTE. 

{Bong  of  the  uncommunicxted  Ideal.) 

I. 

I  OPENED  the  eyes  of  my  souL 

And  behold, 
A  white  river-lily  :  a  lily  awake,  and  aware, — 
For  she  set  her  face  upward, — aware  how  in  scarlet 

and  gold 
A  long  wrinkled  cloud,  left  behind  of  the  wandering 
air, 
Lay  over  with  fold  upon  fold. 
With  fold  upon  fold. 

And  the  blushing  sweet  shame  of  the  cloud  made  her 
also  ashamed. 

The   white  river-lily,  that  suddenly   knew   she  was 
fair ;  * 

And  over  the  far-away  mountains  that  no  man  hath 
named. 
And  that  no  foot  hath  trod, 

Flung  down  out  of  heavenly  places,  there  fell,  as  it 
were, 

A  rose-bloom,  a  token  of  love,  that  should  make  them 
endure, 

Withdrawn  in  snow  silence  forever,  who  keep  them- 
selves pure. 
And  look  up  to  God. 

Then  I  said,  "  In  rosy  air. 
Cradled  on  thy  reaches  fair. 
While  the  blushing  early  ray 
Whitens  into  perfect  day, 
River-lily,  sweetest  known. 
Art  thou  set  for  me  alone  ? 


A  LILY  AND  A  LUTE.  359 

Nay,  but  I  will  bear  thee  far, 
Where  yon  clustering  steeples  are, 
And  the  bells  ring  out  o'erhead, 
And  the  stated  prayers  are  said  ; 
And  the  busy  farmer's  pace, 
Trading  in  the  market-place; 
And  the  country  lasses  sit 
By  their  butter,  praising  it ; 
And  the  latest  news  is  told, 
While  the  fruit  and  cream  are  sold  ; 
And  the  friendly  gossips  greet, 
Up  and  down  the  sunny  street. 
For,"  I  said,  "  I  have  not  met, 
White  one,  any  folk  as  yet 
WtLO  would  send  no  blessing  ap, 
Looking  on  a  face  like  thine  \ 
For  thou  art  as  Joseph's  cup, 
And  by  thee  might  they  divine. 

"  Nay  1  but  thou  a  spirit  art ; 
Men  shall  take  thee' in  the  mart 
For  the  ghost  of  their  best  thought, 
Raised  at  noon,  and  near  them  brought  ; 
Or  the  prayer  they  made  last  night, 
Set  before  them  all  in  white." 

And  I  put  out  my  rash  hand , 
For  I  thought  to  draw  to  land 
The  white  hly.     Was  it  fit 
Such  a  blossom  should  expand. 
Fair  enough  for  a  world's  wonder, 
And  no  mortal  gather  it  ? 
No.     1  strove,  and  it  went  under, 
And  I  drew,  but  it  went  down  ; 
And  the  water-weeds'  long  tresses, 
And  the  overlapping  cresses, 
Sullied  its  admired  crown. 


360  A  LILY  AND  A  LUTE. 


Then  along  the  river  strand, 
Trailing,  wrecked,  it  came  to  land, 
Of  its  beauty  half  despoiled, 
And  its  snowy  pureness  soiled: 
O  I  I  took  it  in  my  hand, — 
You  will  never  see  it  now, 
White  and  golden  as  it  grew : 
No,  I  cannot  show  it  you, 
Nor  the  cheerful  town  endow 
With  the  freshness  of  its  brow. 
If  a  royal  i^ainter,  great 
With  the  colors  dedicate 
To  a  dove's  neck,  a  sea-bight, 
And  the  flickerings  over  white 
Mountain  summits  far  away, — 
One  content  to  give  his  mind 
To  the  enrichment  of  mankind. 
And  the  laying  up  of  light 
In  men's  houses, — on  that  day, 
Could  have  passed  in  kingly  mood, 
Would  he  ever  have  endued 
Canvas  with  the  peerless  thing. 
In  the  grace  that  it  did  bring, 
And  the  light  that  o'er  it  flowed. 
With  the  pureness  that  it  showed, 
And  the  pureness  that  it  meant? 
Could  he  skill  to  make  it  seen 
As  he  saw  ?     For  this,  I  ween, 
He  were  likewise  impotent. 

II. 

I  opened  the  doors  of  my  heart. 

And  behold, 
There  was  music  within  and  a  song, 
And  ecihoes  did  feed  on  the  sweetness,  repeating  It 
Ions. 


A  LILY  AND  A  LUTE.  36 r 

I  opened  the  doors  of  my  heart.     And  behold, 
There. was  music  that  played  itself  out  in  seolian 

notes ; 
Then  was  heard,  as  a  far-away  bell  at  long  intervals 
tolled, 
That  murmurs  and  floats, 
A.nd  presently  dieth,  forgotten  of  forest  and  wold, 
And  comes  in  all  passion  again  and  a  tremblement 
soft, 
That  maketh  the  listener  full  oft 
To   whisper,   "Ahl    would  I  might  hear  it  forever 
and  aye, 
When  I  toil  in  the  heat  of  the  day, 
When  I  walk  in  the  cold." 

I  opened  the  door  of  my  heart.     And  behold, 
There  was  music  within,  and  a  song. 
But  while  I  was  hearkening,  lo,  blackness  without, 

thick  and  strong. 
Came  up  and  came  over,  and  all  that  sweet  fluting 
was  drowned, 
I  could  hear  it  no  more  ; 
For  the  welkin  was  moaning,  the  waters  were  stirred 
on  the  shore, 
And  trees  in  the  dark  all  around 
Were  shaken.      It  thundered.     "  Hark,  hark  I    there 

is  thunder  to-night  I 
The  sullen  long  wave  rears  her  head,  and  comes  down 

with  a  will  ; 
The  awful  white  tongues  are  let  loose,  and  the  stars 

are  all  dead  ; — 
There  is  thunder  I  it  thunders  I  and  ladders  of  light 

Runup.     There  is  thunder  1  "  I  said, 
"  Loud  thunder  I    it  thunders  1    and  up  in  the  dark 

overhead, 
A  down-pouring  cloud  (there  is  thunder  I),  a  down- 
pouring  cloud 


362  A  LTLY  AND  A  LUTE. 

Hails  out  her  fierce  message,  and  quivers  the  deep  in 

its  bed, 
And  cowers  the  earth  held  at  bay  ;  and  they  mutter 

aloud. 
And  pause  with  an  ominous  tremble,  till,  great  ii. 

their  rage, 
The  heavens  and  earth  come  together,  and  meet  with 

a  crash ; 
And  the  fight  is  so  fell  as  if  Time  had  come  down 

with  the  flash, 
And  the  story  of  life  was  all  read, 
And  the  Giver  had  turned  the  last  page. 

Now  their  bar  the  pent  waterfloods  lash, 
And  the  forest  trees  give  out  their  language  austere 
with  great  age  ; 
And  there  flieth  o'er  moor  and  o'er  hill, 
And  there  heaveth  at  intervals  wide. 
The  long  sob  of  nature's  great  passion,  as  loath  to 
subside, 
Until  quiet  drop  down  on  the  tide. 
And  mad  echo  hath  moaned  herself  still. 

Lo  !  or  ever  I  was  'ware. 

In  the  silence  of  the  air. 
Through  my  heart's  wide-open  door, 
Music  floated  forth  once  more. 
Floated  to  the  world's  dark  rim, 
And  looked  over  with  a  hymn  ; 
Then  came  home  with  flutings  fine, 
And  uiscoursed  in  tones  divine 
Of  a  certain  grief  of  mine  ; 
And  went  downward  and  went  in, 
Glimpses  of  my  soul  to  win. 
And  discovered  such  a  deep 
That  I  could  not  choose  but  weop, 
For  it  lay,  a  land-locked  sea, 
Fathomless  and  dim  to  me. 


A  LILY  AND  A  LUTE.  363 

O  the  song  !  It  came  and  went, 
Went  and  came. 

I  have  not  learned 
Half  the  lore  whereto  it  yearned, 
Half  the  magic  that  it  meant. 
Water  booming  in  a  cave ; 
Or  the  swell  of  some  long  wave. 
Setting  in  from  unrevealed 
Countries  ;  or  a  foreign  tongue, 
Sweetly  talked  and  deftly  sung, 
While  the  meaning  is  half  sealed  5 
May  be  like  it.     You  have  heard 
Also  ; — can  you  find  a  word 
For  the  naming  of  such  song  ? 
No  ;  a  name  would  do  it  wrong. 
You  have  heard  it  in  the  night, 
In  the  dropping  rain's  despite, 
Tn  the  midnight  darkness  deep, 
When  the  children  were  asleep, 
And  the  wife — no,  let  that  be  ; 
She  asleep  !     She  knows  right  well 
What  the  song  to  you  and  me, 
While  we  breathe,  can  never  tell ; 
She  hath  heard  its  faultless  flow, 
Where  the  roots  of  music  grow. 

While  I  listened,  like  young  birds. 
Hints  were  fluttering  ;  almost  words, — 
Leaned  and  leaned,  and  nearer  came  \— 
Everything  had  changed  its  name. 

Sorrow  was  a  ship,  I  found. 

Wrecked  Avith  them  that  in  her  are. 

On  an  island  richer  far 

Than  the  port  where  they  were  boundo 

Fear  was  but  the  awful  boom 

Of  the  old  great  bell  of  doom, 


3C4  A  LILY  AND  A  LUTE. 

Tolling,  far  from  earthly  air. 
For  all  worlds  to  go  to  prayer. 
Pain,  that  to  us  mortal  clings, 
But  the  pushing  of  our  wings, 
That  we  have  no  use  for  yet. 
And  the  uprooting  of  our  feet 
From  the  soil  where  they  are  set, 
And  the  land  we  reckon  sweet. 
Love  in  growth,  the  grand  deceit  \ 
Whereby  men  the  perfect  greet  ; 
Love  in  wane,  the  blessing  sent 
To  be  (howsoe'er  it  went) 
Nevermore  with  earth  content. 

O,  full  sweet,  and  O,  full  high, 

Ran  that  music  up  the  sky ; 

But  I  cannot  sing  it  you. 

More  than  I  can  make  you  view, 

With  my  paintings  labial. 

Sitting  up  in  awful  row. 

White  old  men  majestical. 

Mountains,  in  their  gowns  of  snow, 

Ghosts  of  kings  \  as  my  two  eyes, 

Looking  over  speckled  skies. 

See  them  now.     About  their  knees, 

Half  in  haze,  there  stands  at  ease 

A  great  army  of  green  hills. 

Some  bareheaded  ;  and,  behold. 

Small  green  mosses  creep  on  some. 

Those  be  mighty  forests  old  \ 

And  white  avalanches  come 

Through  yon  rents,  where  now  distils 

Sheeny  silver,  pouring  down 

To  a  tune  of  old  renown, 

Cutting  narrow  pathways  through 

Gentian  belts  of  airy  blue, 

To  a  zone  where  starwort  blows, 

Aiid  long  reaches  of  the  rose. 


A  LILY  AND  A  LUTE.  36S 


So,  that  haze  all  left  behind, 
Down  the  chestnut  forests  wind, 
Past  yon  jagged  spires,  where  yet 
Foot  of  man  was  never  set ; 
Past  a  castle  yawning  wide, 
With  a  great  breach  in  its  side, 
To  a  nest-like  valley,  where, 
Like  a  sparrow's  egg  in  hue, 
Lie  two  lakes,  and  teach  the  true 
Color  of  the  sea-maid's  hair. 

What  beside  ?     The  world  beside  i 
Drawing  down  and  down  to  greet 
Cottage  clusters  at  our  feet, — 
Every  scent  of  summer  tide,— 
Flowery  pastures  all  aglow 
(Men  and  women  mowing  go 
Up  and  down  them)  ;  also  soft 
Floating  of  the  film  aloft, 
Fluttering  of  the  leaves  alow. 
Is  this  told  ?     It  is  not  told. 
Where's  the  danger  ?  where's  the  cold 
Slippery  danger  up  the  steep  ? 
Where  yon  shadow  fallen  asleep  ? 
Chirping  bird  and  tumbling  spray. 
Light,  work,  laughter,  scent  of  hay, 
Peace,  and  echo,  where  are  they  ? 

Ah,  they  sleep,  sleep  all  untold  ; 
Memory  must  their  grace  unfold 
Sileutly  ;  and  that  high  song 
Of  the  heart,  it  doth  belong 
To  the  hearers.     Not  a  whit. 
Though  a  chief  musician  heard, 
Could  he  make  a  tune  for  it. 

Though  a  lute  full  deftly  strung, 
And  the  sv/eetest  bird  e'er  sung. 


366  GLAD  VS  AND  HER  ISLAND. 


Could  have  tried  it, — O,  the  lute 
For  that  wondrous  song  were  mute, 
And  the  bird  would  do  her  part, 
Palter,  fail,  and  break  her  heart, — 
Break  her  heart,  and  fuil  her  wings, 
On  the  unexpressive  strings. 


GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAND. 

{On  the  Advantages  of  the  Poetical  Temperament.) 

Ali  IMPERFECT  FABLE    WITH    A    DOUBTFUL    MORAL. 

O  HAPPY  Gladys  !  I  rejoice  with  her, 
For  Gladys  saw  the  island. 

It  was  thus : 
They  gave  a  day  for  pleasure  in  the  school 
Where  Gladys  taught ;  arid  all  the  other  giris 
Were  taken  out  to  picnic  in  a  wood. 
Kut  it  was  said,  "  We  think  it  were  not  well 
Tha*"  little  Gladys  should  acquire  a  taste 
For  pleasure,  going  about,  and  needless  change. 
It  would  not  suit  her  station  :  discontent 
Might  come  of  it ;  and  all  her  duties  now 
She  does  so  pleasantly,  that  Ave  were  best 
To  keep  her  humble."     So  they  said  to  her, 
"  Gladys,  we  shall  not  want  you,  all  to-day. 
Look,  you  are  free  ;  you  need  not  sit  at  work  % 
No,  you  may  take  a  long  and  pleasant  walk 
Over  the  sea-cliff,  or  upon  the  beach 
Amon[;  the  visitors." 

Then  Gladys  blushed 
For  .ioy,  and  thanked  them.     What  I  a  holiday, 
A  v/hole  one,  for  herself  !     IIow  good,  how  kindl 
Wit.h  that,  the  mai-shalled  carriages  drova  oil  j 


GLADYS  AND  HER  TVLAND.  Z^7 


And  (iladys,  sobered  with  her  weight  of  joy,. 
Stole  out  bpvond  the  groups  xipon  the  beach — 
The  children  with  their  wooden  spades,  the  ba?  d 
That  played  for  lovers,  and  the  sunny  stir 
Of  cheerful  life  and  leisure — to  the  rocks, 
For  these  she  wanted  most,  and  there  was  time  , 
To  mark  them  ;  how  like  ruined  organs  prone  ,' 
TJiey  lay,  or  leaned  their  giant  fluted  pipes, 
And  let  the  great  white-crested  reckless  wave  ' 
JJeat  out  their  booming  melody. 

The  sea 
Was  filled  with  light ;  in  clear  blue  caverns  curled 
The  breakers,  and  they  ran,  and  seemed  to  romp, 
As  playing  at  some  rough  and  dangerous  game, 
While  all  the  nearer  waves  rushed  in  to  help, 
And  all  the  farther  heaved  their  heads  to  peep, 
And  tossed  the  fishing-boats.     Then  Gladys  laughed; 
And  said,  "  O  happy  tide,  to  be  so  lost 
In  sunshine,  that  one  dare  not  look  at  it ; 
And  lucky  cliffs,  to  be  so  broM'n  and  warm  ; 
And  yet  how  lucky  are  the  shadows,  too, 
That  lurk  beneath  their  ledges.     It  is  strange, 
That  in  remembrance  though  I  lay  them  up, 
They  are  forever,  when  I  come  to  them. 
Better  than  I  had  thought.     O,  something  ye'f. 
I  had  forgotten.     Oft  I  say,  '  At  least 
This  picture  is  imprinted  ;  thus  and  thus, 
The  sharjjened  serried  jags  run  up,  run  out, 
Layer  on  layer.'     And  I  look — up — up — 
High,  higher  up  again,  till  far  aloft 
They  cut  into  their  ether — brown,  and  clear, 
And  perfect.     And  I,  saying,  'This  is  mine. 
To  keep,'  retire;  but  shortly  come  again, 
And  they  confound  me  with  a  glorious  change. 
The  low  sun  out  of  rain-clouds  stares  at  th<Mn  ; 
They  redden,  and  their  edges  drip  with — wliat  ? 


3^5  GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAND. 

I  know  not,  but  'tis  red.     It  leaves  no  stain, 
For  the  next  morning  they  stand  up  lilce  ghosts 
In  a  sea-shroud,  and  fifty  thousand  mews 
Sit  there,  in  long  white  files,  and  chatter  on, 
Like  silly  schhol-girls  in  their  silliest  mood. 

"There  is  the  boulder  where  we  always  turn. 

O,  I  have  longed  to  pass  it ;  now  I  will. 

What  would  they  say  ?  for  one  must  slip  and  spring  ; 

'  Young  ladies  1  Gladys  !  I  am  shocked.     My  dears, 

Decorum,  if  you  please:  turn  back  at  once. 

Gladys,  we  blame  you  most ;  you  should  have  looked 

Before  you.'     Then  they  sigh, — how  kind  they  are  I — 

'  What  will  become  of  you,  if  all  your  life 

You  look  a  long  way  off  ? — look  anywhere, 

And  everywhere,  instead  of  at  your  feet. 

And  where  they  carry  you  V     Ah,  well,  I  km)w 

It  is  a  pity,"  GIsaIvs  said  ;  •'  but. then 

We  cannot  all  be  wise  :  happy  for  me 

That  other  people  are. 

"  And  yet  I  wish, — 
For  sometimes  very  right  and  serious  thoughts 
Come  to  me, — I  do  wish  that  they  would  come 
When  they  are  wanted  ! — when  I  teach  the  sums 
On  rainy  days,  and  when  the  practising 
I  count  to,  and  the  din  goes  on  and  on. 
Still  the  same  tune  and  still  the  same  mistake, 
Then  I  am  Avise  enough  :  sometimes  I  feel 
Quite  old.     I  think  that  it  will  last,  and  say, 
'  Now  my  reflections  do  me  credit  !  now 
I  am  a  woman  !  '  and  I  wish  they  knew 
How  serious  all  my  duties  look  to  me, 
And  how  my  heart  hushed  down  and  shaded  lies, 
Just  like  the  sea,  when  low,  convenient  clouds 
Come  over,  and  drink  all  its  sparkles  up. 
But  does  it  last?     Perhaps,  that  very  day, 


GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAND.  369 

The  front  door  opens  :  out  we  walk  in  pairs  ; 

And  I  aui  so  delighted  with  this  world, 

That  suddenly  has  grown,  being  new  washed, 

To  such  a  smiling,  clean,  and  thankful  world, 

And  with  a  tender  face  shining  through  tears, 

Looks  up  into  the  sometime  lowering  sky, 

That  has  been  angry,  but  is  reconciled, 

And  just  forgiving  her,  that  I, — that  I, — • 

O,  I  forget  myself :  what  matters  how  ! 

And  then  I  hear  (but  always  kindly  said) 

Some  words  that  pain  me  so, — but  just,  but  true  : 

'  For  if  your  place  in  this  establishment 

Be  but  subordinate,  and  if  your  birth 

Be  lowly,  it  the  more  behooves — Well,  well. 

No  more.     W©  see  that  you  are  sorry.'     Yes  \ 

I  am  always  sorry  THEif  ;  but  now, — O,  now, 

Here  is  a  bight  more  beautiful  than  all." 

"  And  did  they  scold  her,  then,  my  pretty  ono  ? 
And  did  she  want  to  be  as  wise  as  they, — 
To  bear  a  bucklered  heart  and  priggish  mind  ? 
Ay,  you  may  crow ;  she  did  I  but  no,  no,  no, 
The  night-time  will  not  let  her ;  all  the  stars 
Say  nay  to  that ;  the  old  sea  laughs  at  her. 
Why,  Gladys  is  a  child  ;  she  has  not  skill 
To  shut  herself  within  her  own  small  cell, 
And  build  the  door  up,  and  to  say,  '  Poor  me  I 
1  am  a  prisoner  ; '  then  to  take  hewn  stones, 
A  nd,  having  built  the  windows  up,  to  say, 
'  O,  it  is  dark  !  there  is  no  sunshine  here  ; 
There  never  has  been.'  " 

Strange  I  how  very  strango  I 
A  woman  passing  Gladys  with  a  babe. 
To  whom  she  spoke  these  words,  and  only  looked 
Upon  the  babe,  who  crowed  and  pulled  her  curls, 
And  never  looked  at  Gladys,  never  once. 

24 


■^•70  GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAND. 


•'A  simple  child,"  she  added,  and  went  by, 
"  To  want  to  change  her  greater  for  their  less  ; 
But  Gladys  shall  not  do  it,  no,  not  she  ; 
We  love  her — don't  we  ? — far  too  well  for  that." 


Then  Gladys,  flushed  with  shame  and  keen  surprise 

"  How  could  she  be  so  near,  and  I  not  know  ? 

And  have  I  spoken  out  my  thought  aloud  ? 

I  must  have  done,  forgetting.     It  is  well 

She  walks  so  fast,  for  I  am  hungry  now. 

And  here  is  water  cantering  down  the  cliff, 

And  here  a  shell  to  catch  it  with,  and  here 

The  round  plump  buns  they  gave  me,  and  tho  fruit. 

Now  she  is  gone  behind  the  rock.     O,  rare 

To  be  alone  !  "     So  Gladys  sat  her  down, 

Unpacked  her  little  basket,  ate  and  drank. 

Then  pushed  her  hands  into  the  warm  dry  sand, 

And  thought  the  earth  was  happy,  and  she  too 

Was  going  round  with  it  in  happiness, 

That  holiday.     "  What  was  it  that  she  said  ?" 

Quoth  Gladys,  cogitating  ;  "  they  were  kind, 

The  words  that  woman  spoke.     She  does  not  know ! 

'  Her  greater  for  their  less,' — it  makes  me  laugh, — 

But  yet,"  sighed  Gladys,  *'  though  it  must  be  good 

To  look  and  to  admire,  one  should  not  wish 

To  steal  their  virtues,  and  to  put  them  on, 

Like  feathers  from  another  wing  j  beside. 

That  calm,  and  that  grave  consciousness  of  worth, 

When  all  is  said,  woxild  little  suit  with  me. 

Who  am  not  worthy.     When  our  thoughts  are  born, 

Though  they  be  good  and  humble,  one  should  wAwl 

How  they  are  reared,  or  some  will  go  astray 

And  shame  their  mother.     Cain  and  Abel  both 

Were  only  once  removed  from  innocence. 

Why  did  I  envy  them  ?     That  was  not  good  \ 

Yet  it  began  with  my  humility." 


rr.ADVS  AA^D  HER  ISLAND.  37^ 


But  as  she  spake,  lo,  Gladys  raised  her  eyes. 

And  right  before  her,  on  the  horizon's  edge, 

Behold,  an  island  !     First,  she  looked  away 

Along  the  solid  rocks  and  steadfast  shore, 

For  she  was  all  amazed,  believing  not, 

And  then  she  looked  again,  and  there  again 

Behold,  an  island  !     And  the  tide  had  turned, 

The  milky  sea  had  got  a  purple  rim. 

And  from  the  rim  that  mountain  island  rose, 

Purple,  with  two  high  peaks,  the  nortiiern  peak    ^ 

The  higher,  and  with  fell  and  precipice, 

It  ran  down  steeply  to  the  water's  brink ; 

But  all  the  southern  hne  was  long  and  soft, 

Broken  with  tender  curves,  and,  as  she  thought, 

Covered  with  forest  or  with  sward.     But,  lookS 

The  sun  was  on  the  island  ;  and  he  showed 

On  either  peak  a  dazzling"  cap  of  snow. 

Then  Gladys  held  her  breath  ;  she  said,  "  Indeed, 

Indeed  it  is  an  island  :  how  is  this, 

I  never  saw  it  till  this  fortunate 

Rare  holiday  ?  "     And  while  she  strained  her  eyes, 

She  thought  that  it  began  to  fade  ;  but  not 

To  change  as  clouds  do,  only  to  withdraw 

And  melt  into  its  azure  ;  and  at  last, 

Little  by  little,  from  her  hungry  heart. 

That  longed  to  draw  things  marvellous  to  itself. 

And  yearned  towards  the  riches  and  the  great 

Abundance  of  the  beauty  God  hath  made. 

It  passed  away.     Tears  started  in  her  eyes, 

And  when  they  dropt,  the  mountain  isle  was  gono  ; 

The  careless  sea  had  quite  forgotten  it. 

And  all  was  even  as  it  had  been  before. 

And  Gladys  wept,  but  there  was  luxury 
In  her  self-pity,  while  she  softly  sobbed, 
*'  O,  what  a  little  while  I    I  am  afraid 
1  Hiiall  forget  that  purple  mountain  iele, 


372  GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAND. 

The  lovely  hollows  atween  her  snow-clad  peaks> 
The  grace  of  her  upheaval  where  she  lay- 
Well  up  against  the  open.     O,  my  heart, 
Now  I  remember  how  this  holiday- 
Will  soon  be  done,  and  now  my  life  goes  on 
Not  fed  ;  and  only  in  the  noonday  walk 
Let  to  look  silently  at  what  it  wants. 
Without  the  power  to  wait  or  pause  awhile, 
And  understand  and  draw  within  itself 
The  richness  of  the  earth.     A  holiday  ! 
How  few  I  have  !     I  spend  the  silent  time 
At  work,  while  all  their  pupils  are  gone  home, 
And  feel  myself  remote.     They  shine  apart; 
They  are  great  planets,  I  a  little  orb  ; 
My  little  orbit  far  within  their  own 
Turns,  and  approaches  not.     But  yet,  the  mor*^ 
I  am  alone  when  those  I  teach  return  ; 
For  they,  as  planets  of  some  other  sun. 
Not  mine,  have  paths  that  can  but  meet  my  rinf; 
Once  in  a  cycle.     O,  how  poor  I  am  ! 
I  have  not  got  laid  up  in  this  blank  heart 
Any  indulgent  kisses  given  me 
Because  I  had  been  good,  or,  yet  more  sweet. 
Because  my  childhood  was  itself  a  good 
Attractive  thing  for  kisses,  tender  praise, 
And  comforting.     An  orphan-school  at  bept 
Is  a  cold  mother  in  the  winter  time 
('Twas  mostly  winter  when  new  orphans  came). 
An  unregardful  mother  in  the  spring. 

"  Yet  once  a  year  (I  did  mine  wrong)  we  went 
To  gather  cowslips.     How  we  thought  on  it 
Beforehand,  pacing,  pacing  the  dull  street. 
To  tliat  one  tree,  the  only  one  we  saw 
From  April, — if  the  cowshps  were  in  bloom 
So  early  ;  or,  if  not,  from  opening  iiiay 
Even  to  September.     Then  there  came  the  foast 


GLADYS  AiYD  HER  ISLAND.  373 

At  Epping.     If  it  rained  that  day,  it  rained 
For  a  whole  year  to  us  ;  Ave  could  not  think 
Of  fields  and  hawthorn  hedges,  and  the  leaves 
Fluttering,  but  still  it  rained,  and  ever  rained. 

"  Ah,  well,  but  I  ani  here  ;  but  I  have  seen 
The  gay  gorse  bushes  in  their  flowering  time  ; 
I  know  the  scent  of  bean-fields  ;  I  have  heard 
The  satisfying  murmur  of  tiie  main."  * 

The  woman  !  she  came  round  the  rock  again 

With  her  fair  baby,  and  she  sat  her  down 

By  Gladys,  murmuring,    "  Who  forbade  the  grass 

To  grow  by  visitations  of  the  dew  ? 

Who  said  in  ancient  time  to  the  desert  pool, 

*  Thou  shalt  not  wait  for  angel  visitors 

To  trouble  thy  still  water  ? '     Must  we  bide 

At  home  ?     The  lore,  beloved,  sliall  fly  to  us 

On  a  pair  of  sumptuous  wings.     Or  may  we  breatho 

Without  ?     O,  we  shall  draw  to  us  the  air 

That  times  and  mystery  feed  on.     This  shall  lay 

Unchidden  hands  upon  the  heart  o'  the  world. 

And  feel  it  beating.     Rivers  shall  run  on, 

Full  of  sweet  language  as  a  lover's  mouth. 

Delivering  of  a  tune  to  make  her  youth 

More  beautiful  than  wheat  when  it  is  green. 

"  What  else  ? — (O,  none  shall  envy  her  !)     The  rain 

And  the  wild  weather  will  be  most  her  own. 

And  talk  with  her  o'  nights  ;  and  if  the  winds 

llave  seen  aught  wondrous,  they  will  tell  it  her 

In  a  mouthful  of  strange  moans, — will  bring  from  far 

Her  ears  being  keen,  the  lowing  and  the  mad, 

Masterful  tramping  of  the  bison  herds, 

Tearing  down  headlong  with  their  bloodshot  eyes. 

In  savage  rifts  of  hair  \  the  crack  and  creak 

Of  ice-floes  in  the  frozen  sea,  the  cry 


374  .  GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAND. 

Of  the  white  bears,  all  in  a  dim  blue  world 

Mumbling  their  meals  by  twilight ;  or  the  rock 

And  majesty  of  motion,  when  their  heads 

Primeval  trees  toss  in  a  sunny  storm, 

And  hail  their  nuts  down  on  unweeded  fields. 

No  holidays,"  quoth  she  ;   "  drop,  drop,  O,  drop, 

Thou  tired  skylark,  and  go  up  no  more  ; 

You  lime-trees,  cover  not  your  head  with  bees, 

Nor  give  out  your  good  smell.     She  will  not  look  J 

No,  Gladys  cannot  draw  your  sweetness  in. 

For  lack  of  holidays."     So  Gladys  thought, 

"  A  most  strange  woman,  and  she  talks  of  me." 

With  that  a  girl  ran  up  :  "  Mother,"  she  said, 

"  Come  out  of  this  brown  bight,  I  pray  you  now,    , 

It  smells  of  fairies."     Gladys  thereon  thought, 

"  The  mother  will  not  speak  to  me,  perhaps 

The  daughter  may,"  and  asked  her  courteously, 

"  Wliat  do  tho  fairies  smell  of  ?  "     But  the  girl 

With  peevish  pout  replied,  "  You  know,  you  know." 

"  Not  I,"  said  Gladys  ;  then  she  answered  her, 

"  Something  like  buttercups.     But,  mother,  come. 

And  whisper  up  a  porpoise  from  the  foam, 

Because  I  want  to  ride." 

Full  slowly,  then, 
Tho  mother  rose,  and  ever  kept  her  t^yes 
Upon  her  little  child.     "  You  freakish  maid," 
Said  she,  "  now  mark  me,  if  I  call  you  one. 
You  shall  not  scold  nor  make  him  take  you  fare" 

"I  only  want — you  know  I  only  want," 
The  girl  replied — "  to  go  and  play  awliile 
Upon  the  sand  by  Lagos."     Then  she  turned 
And  muttered  low,  "  Mother,  is  this  the  girl 
Tflio  saw  the  island  ?  "     But  ttie  motlur  frowned. 
*  When  may  she  go  to  it '(  "  tho  daughter  uoked. 


GLADYS  AND  HEP  ISLAND.  375 


And  Gladys,  following  them,  gave  all  her  mind 
To  hear  the  answer.     "  When  she  wills  to  go ; 
For  yonder  comes  to  shore  tlie  ferry-boat." 
Then  Gladys  turned  to  look,  and  even  so 
If,  was  ;  a  ferry-boat,  and  far  away 
Reared  in  the  offing,  lo,  the  purple  peaks 
Of  her  loved  island. 


Then  she  raised  her  arms, 
And  ran  toward  the  boat,  crying  out,    "  O  rare. 
The  Island !  fair  befall  the  island  ;  let 
Me  reach  the  island."     And  she  sprang  on  board, 
And  after  her  stepped  in  the  freakish  maid 
And  the  fair  mother,  brooding  o'er  her  child  ; 
And  this  one  took  the  helm,  and  that  let  go 
The  sail,  and  off  they  flew,  and  furrowed  up 
A  flaky  hill  before,  and  left  behind 
A  sobbing,  snake-like  tail  of  creamy  foam  ; 
And  dancing  liither,  thither,  sometimes  shot 
Toward  the  island  ;  then,  when  Gladys  looked 
Were  leaving  it  to  leeward.     And  the  maid 
Whistled  a  wind  to  come  and  rock  the  craft, 
And  would  be  leaning  down  her  head  to  luew 
At  cat-fish,  then  lift  out  into  her  lap 
And  dandle  baby-seals,  which,  having  kissed, 
She  flung  to  their  sleek  mothers,  till  her  own 
Rebuked  her  in  good  English,  after  cried, 
"  LufT,  luff,  we  shall  be  swamped."   "  I  will  not  luff," 
Sobbed  the  fair  mischief;  "  you  are  cross  to  me." 
"  For  shame  !  "  the  mother  shrieked  ;   "  luff,  luff,  my 

dear ; 
Kiss  and  be  friends,  and  thou  shalt  have  the  fish 
With  the  curly  tail  to  ride  on."     So  she  did. 
And  presently,  a  dolphin  bouncing  up, 
She  sprang  upon  his  slippery  back, — "  Farewell," 
She  laughed,  was  off,  and  all  the  sea  grew  calm. 


3?6  GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAND. 


Then  Gladys  was  much  happier,  and  was  Avaro 

In  the  smooth  weather  that  this  woman  talked 

Like  one  in  sleep,  and  murmured  certain  thoughts 

Which  seemed  to  be  like  echoes  of  her  own. 

She  nodded,  "  Yes,  the  girl  is  going  now 

To  her  own  island.     Gladys  poor  ?     Not  she  I 

Who  thinks  so  ?     Once  I  met  a  man  in  white, 

Who  said  to  me,  '  The  thing  that  might  have  been 

Is  called,  and  questioned  why  it  hath  not  been  j 

And  can  it  give  good  reason,  it  is  set 

Beside  the  actual,  and  reckoned  in 

To  fill  the  empty  gaps  of  life.'     Ah,  so 

The  possible  stands  by  us  ever  fresh. 

Fairer  than  aught  which  any  life  hath  owned, 

And  makes  divine  amends.     Now  this  was  set 

Apart  from  kin,  and  not  ordained  a  home  ; 

An  equal ; — and  not  suffered  to  fence  in 

A  little  plot  of  earthly  good,  and  say, 

'Tis  mine  ;  but  in  bereavement  of  the  part, 

O,  yet  to  taste  the  whole, — to  understand 

The  grandeur  of  the  story,  not  to  feel 

Satiate  with  good  possessed,  but  evermore 

A  healthful  hunger  for  the  great  idea. 

The  beauty  and  the  blessedness  of  life. 

"Lo,  now,  the  shadow  !  "  quoth  slie,  breaking  off, 

"  We  are  in  the  shadow."     Then  did  Gladys  turn, 

And,  O,  the  mountain  with  the  purple  peaks 

Was  close  at  hand.     It  cast  a  shadow  out. 

And  they  were  in  it:  and  she  saw  the  snow, 

And  under  that  the  rocks,  and  under  that 

The  pines,  and  then  the  pasturage  ;  and  saw 

Numerous  dips,  and  undulations  rare, 

Running  down  seawanl,  all  astir  with  lithe 

Long  canes,  and  lofty  feathers  j  for  the  palms 

And  si)ice  trees  of  the  south,  nay,  every  growth, 

Meets  in  that  island. 


GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAND.  37? 


So  that  woman  ran 
The  boat  ashore,  and  Gladys  set  her  foot 
Thereon.     Then  all  at  once  much  laughter  rose  ; 
Invincible  folks  set  up  exultant  shouts, 
"  It  all  belongs  to  Gladys  ;"  and  she  ran 
And  hid  herself  among  the  nearest  trees 
And  panted,  shedding  tears. 

So  she  looked  round. 
And  saw  that  she  was  in  a  banyan  grove, 
Full  of  wild  peacocks,— pecking  on  the  grass, 
A  flickering  mass  of  eyes,  blue,  green,  and  gold, 
Or  reaching  out  their  jewelled  necks,  where  high 
Taqy  sat  in  rows  along  the  boughs.     No  tree 
Cuaibered  with  creepers  let  the  sunshine  through, 
But  it  was  caught  in  scarlet  cups,  and  poured 
From  these  on  amber  tufts  of  bloom,  and  dropped 
Lower  on  azure  stars.     The  air  was  still, 
As  if  awaiting  somewhat,  or  asleep. 
And  Gladys  was  the  only  thing  that  moved, 
Excepting— no,  they  were  not  birds— what  then? 
Glorified  rainbows  with  a  living  soul  ? 
While  they  passed  th^^ough  a  sunbeam  they  were  seen, 
Not  otherwhere,  but  chey  were  present  yet 
In  shade.     They  were  at  work,  pomegranate  fruit 
That  lay  about  removing,— purple  grapes. 
That  clustered  in  the  path,  clearing  aside. 
Through  a  small  spot  of  light  would  pass  and  go 
The  glorious  happy  mouth  and  two  fair  eyes 
Of  somewhat  that  made  rustlings  where  it  went ; 
But  when  a  beam  would  strike  the  ground  sheer  down, 
l^ehold  them  !  they  had  wings,  and  they  would  pass 
One  after  other  with  the  sheeny  fans. 
Bearing  them  slowly,  that  their  hues  were  seen, 
Tender  as  russet  crimson  dropt  on  snows. 
Or  where  they  turned  flashing  with  gold  and  dashed 
With  purple  glooms.     And  tiiey  had  feet,  but  tiiyse 


378  GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAND. 

Did  barely  touch  the  ground.     And  they  took  heed 

Not  to  disturb  the  waiting  quietness  \ 

Nor  rouse  up  fawns,  that  slept  beside  their  dams  j 

Nor  the  fair  leopard,  with  her  sleek  paws  laid 

Across  her  little  drowsy  cubs  \  nor  swans, 

That,  floating,  slept  upon  a  glassy  pool ; 

Nor  rosy  cranes,  all  slumbering  in  the  reeds, 

With  heads  beneath  their  wings.   For  this,  you  know. 

Was  Eden.     She  was  passing  through  the  trees 

That  made  a  ring  about  it,  and  she  caught 

A  glimpse  of  glades  beyond.     All  she  had  seen 

Was  nothing  to  them  ;  but  words  are  not  made 

To  tell  that  tale.     No  wind  was  let  to  blow. 

And  all  the  doves  were  bidden  to  hold  their  peace. 

Why  ?     One  was  working  in  a  valley  near. 

And  none  might  look  that  way.     It  was  understood 

That  He  had  nearly  ended  that  His  work  ; 

For  two  shapes  met,  and  one  to  other  spake, 

Accosting  him  with,  "  Prince,  what  worketh  He?" 

Who  whispered,  "  Lo  !  He  fashioneth  red  clay." 

And  all  at  once  a  little  trembling  stir 

Was  felt  in  the  earth,  and  every  creature  woke, 

And  laid  its  head  down,  listening      It  was  known 

Then  that  the  work  was  done  ;  the  new-made  king 

Had  risen,  and  set  his  feet  upon  his  realm, 

And  it  acknowledged  him. 


But  in  her  path 
Came  some  one  that  withstood  her,  and  he  said, 
"  What  dost  thou  here?"     Then  she  did   turn  and 

flee. 
Among  those  colored  spirits,  through  the  grove, 
Trembling  for  haste  ;  it  was  not  well  with  her 
Till  she  caTue  fortli  of  those  thick  banyan  trees. 
And  set  her  feet  ui)on  the  common  grass, 
And  felt  tho  common  wind. 


GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAND.  379 


Yet  once  beyond. 
She  could  not  choose  but  cast  a  backward  glance. 
The  lovely  matted  growth  stood  like  a  wall, 
And  means  of  entering  were  not  evident, — 
The  gap  had  closed.     But  Gladys  laughed  for  joy  ; 
She  said,  "  Remoteness  and  a  multttude 
Of  years  are  counted  notliing  here.     Behold, 
To-day  I  have  been  in  Eden.     O,  it  blooms 
In  my  own  island." 

And  she  wandered  on, 
Thinking,  until  she  reached  a  place  of  palms, 
And  all  the  earth  was  sandy  where  she  walked,— 
Sandy  and  dry,— strewed  with  papyrus-leaves, 
Old  idols,  rings  and  pottery,  painted  lids 
Of  mummies  (for  perhaps  it  was  the  way 
That  leads  to  dead  old  Egypt),  and  withal 
Excellent  sunshine  cut  out  sharp  and  clear 
The  hot  prone  pillars,  and  the  carven  plinths. — 
Stone  lotos  cups,  with  petals  dipped  in  sand, 
And  wicked  gods,  and  sphinxes  bland,  who  sat 
And  smiled  upon  the  ruin.     O,  how  still  ! 
Hot,  blank,  illuminated  with  the  clear 
Stare  of  an  unveiled  sky.     The  dry  still  leaves 
Of  palm-trees  never  rustled,  and  the  soul 
Of  that  dead  ancientry  was  itself  dead. 
She  was  above  her  ankles  in  the  sand, 
When  she  beheld  a  rocky  road,  and,  lo  ! 
It  bare  in  it  the  ruts  of  chariot  wheels, 
Which  erst  had  carried  to  their  pagan  prayers 
The  brown  old  Pharaohs  ;  for  the  ruts  led  on 
To  a  great  clitl,  that  either  was  a  chlf 
Or  some  dread  shrine  in  ruins, — partly  reared 
In  front  of  that  same  cliff,  and  partly  liewn 
Or  excavate  within  its  heart.     Grreat  heaps 
Of  sand  and  stones  on  either  side  there  lay  ; 
And,  as  the  girl  drew  on,  rose  out  from  each, 


380  GLAD  YS  AND  HER  ISLAND. 

As  from  a  prhostly  kennel,  gods  unblest, 
Dog-headed,  and  behind  them  winged  things 
Like  angels  \  and  this  carven  multitude 
Hedged  in,  to  right  and  left,  the  rocky  road. 

At  last,  the  cliflf, — and  in  the  cliff  a  door 
Yawning  :  and  she  looked  in,  as  down  the  throat 
Of  some  stupendous  giant,  and  beheld 
No  floor,  but  wide,  worn  flights  of  steps,  that  led 
Into  a  dimness.     When  the  eyes  could  bear 
That  change  to  gloom,  she  saw,  flight  after  flight, 
Flight  after  flight,  the  worn,  long  stair  go  down, 
Siiiooth  with  the  feet  of  nations  dead  and  gone. 
So  she  did  enter  ;  also  she  went  down 
Till  it  was  dark,  and  yet  again  went  down, 
Till,  gazing  upward  at  that  yawning  door, 
It  seemed  no  larger,  in  its  height  remote. 
Than  a  pin's  head.     But  while,  irresolute, 
She  doubted  of  the  end,  yet  farther  down 
A  slender  ray  of  lamplight  fell  away 
Along  the  stair,  as  from  a  door  ajar : 
To  this  again  she  felt  her  way,  and  stepped 
Adown  the  hollow  stair,  and  reached  the  light  , 
But  fear  fell  on  her,  fear  ;  and  she  forbore 
Entrance,  and  listened.     Ay  1  'twas  even  so, — 
A  sigh  ;  the  breathing  as  of  one  who  slept 
And  was  disturbed.     So  she  drew  back  awliile. 
And  trembled  ;  then  her  doubting  hand  she  laid 
Against  the  door,  and  pushed  it ;  but  the  light 
Waned,  faded,  sank  ;  and  as  she  came  within — 
Hark,  hark  !     A  spirit  was  it,  and  asleep  ? 
A  spirit  doth  not  breathe  like  clay.     There  hung 
A  cresset  from  the  roof,  and  thence  appeared 
A  flickering  speck  of  light,  and  disappeared  ; 
Then  dropped  along  the  floor  its  elfish  flakes, 
That  fell  on  some  one  resting,  in  the  glooin, — 
Somewhat,  a  spectral  shadow,  then  a  shape 


GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAND.  381 


That  loomed.     It  was  a  heifer,  ay,  and  white, 
Breathing  and  languid  through  prolonged  repose. 

Was  it  a  heifer  ?  all  the  marble  iloor 
Was  milk-white  also,  and  the  cresset  paled, 
And    straight    their  whiteness    grew   confused    and 
mixed. 

But  when  the  cresset,  taking  heart,  bloomed  out, — 
The  whiteness, — and  asleep  again  !  but  now 
It  was  a  woman,  robed,  and  with  a  face 
Lovely  and  dim.     And  Gladys  while  she  gazed 
Murmured,  "O  terrible  !     I  am  afraid 
To  breathe  among  these  intermittent  lives. 
That  fluctuate  in  mystic  solitude, 
And  change  and  fade.     Lo  !  Avhere  the  goddess  titb 
Dreaming  on  her  dim  throne  ;  a  crescent  moon 
She  wears  upon  her  forehead.     Ah  !  her  frown 
Is  mournful,  and  her  slumber  is  not  sweet. 
What  dost  thou  hold,  Isis,  to  thy  cold  breast? 
A  baby  god  with  finger  on  his  lips. 
Asleep,  and  dreaming  of  departed  sway? 
Thy  son.     Hush,  hush  ;  he  knoweth  all  the  lore 
And  sorcery  of  old  Egypt ;  but  his  mouth 
He  shuts  ;  the  secret  shall  be  lost  with,  him. 
He  will  not  tell." 

The  woman  coming  down  . 
"  Child,  what  art  doing  here  ?  "  the  woman  said  ; 
'  What  wilt  thou  of  Dame  Isis  and  her  bairn  ?  " 
Ul.V>  «2/'  ^6  see  thee  breathing  in  thy  shroud, — 
Thy  pretty  fthrotid,  cdl  frilled  and  far-helowed.) 
The  air  is  dim  with  dust  of  spiced  bones. 
I  mark  a  crypt  down  there.     Tier  upon  tier 
Of  painted  coffers  fills  it.     What  if  we. 
Passing,  should  slip,  and  crash  into  their  midst, — 
Break  the  frail  ancientry,  and  smothered  lie, 


382  GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAND. 

Tumbled  among  the  ribs  of  queens  and  kings, 
And  all  the  gear  they  took  to  bed  with  them  I 
Horrible  I  let  us  hence. 

And  Gladys  said, 
"  O,  they  are  rough  to  mount,  those  stairs ;  "  but  3ho 
Took  her  and  laughed,  and  up  the  mighty  flight 
Shot  like  a  meteor  with  her.     "  There,"  said  she  ; 
"  The  light  is  sweet  when  one  has  smelled  of  graves, 
Down  in  unholy  heathen  gloom  ;  farewell." 
She  pointed  to  a  gateway,  strong  and  high. 
Reared  of  hewn  stones  ;  but,  look  !  in  lieu  of  gato, 
There  was  a  glitterinc:  cobweb  drawn  across, 
And  on  the  lintel  there  were  writ  these  words  : 
"  Ho,  every  one  that  cometh,  I  divide 
What  hath  been  from  what  might  be,  and  the  lino 
Hangeth  before  thee  as  a  spider's  web  ; 
Yet,  wouldst  thou  enter,  thou  must  breik  the  line, 
Or  else  forbear  the  hill." 

The  maiden  said, 
"So,  cobweb,  I  will  break  thee."     And  she  passed 
Among  some  oak-trees  on  the  farther  side, 
And  Avaded  through  the  bracken  round  their  bolls, 
Until  she  saAv  the  open,  and  drew  on 
Toward  the  edge  o'  the  wood,  where  it  was  mixed 
With  pines  and  heathery  places  wild  and  fresh. 
Here  she  put  up  a  creature,  that  ran  on 
Before  her,  crying,  "  Tint,  tint,  tint,"  and  turned, 
Sat  up,  and  stared  at  her  with  elfish  eyes, 
Jabbering  of  gramarye,  one  Michael  Scott, 
The  wizard  that  wonned  somewhere  underground, 
With  other  talk  enough  to  make  one  fear 
To  walk  in  lonely  places.     After  passed 
A  man-at-arms,  William  of  Deloraine  ; 
He  shook  his  head,  "  An'  if  I  list  to  tell," 
(^uoth  ho,  "  I  know,  but  how  it  matters  not ;  " 


GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAND,  3<<3 

Then  crossed  himself,  and  muttered  of  a  clap 

Of  thunder,  and  a  shape  in  Amice  gray. 

But  still  it  mouthed  at  him,  and  whimpered,  "  Tint, 

Tint,  tint."     "There  shall  be  wild  work  some  day 

soon," 
Quoth  he,  "  thou  limb  of  darkness  :  he  will  come, 
Thy  master,  push  a  hand  up,  catch  thee,  imp, 
And  so  good  Christians  shall  have  peace,  perdio." 

Then  Gladys  was  so  frightened,  that  she  ran. 

And  got  away,  towards  a  grassy  down. 

Where  sheep  and  lambs  Avere  feeding,  with  a  boy 

To  tend  them.     'Twas  the  boy  who  wears  that  heih 

Called  heart's-ease  in  his  bosom,  and  ho  sang 

So  sweetly  to  his  flock,  that  she  stole  on 

Nearer  to  listen.     "  O  Content,  Content, 

Oive  me,"  sang  he,  "  thy  tender  company. 

I  feed  my  flock  among  the  myrtles  ;  all 

My  lambs  are  twins,  and  they  have  laid  them  down 

Along  the  slopes  of  Beulah.     Come,  fair  love, 

From  the  other  side  the  river,  where  their  harps 

Thou  hast  been  helping  them  to  tune.     O  come, 

And  pitch  thy  tent  by  mine ;  let  me  behold 

Thy  mouth, — that  even  in  slumber  talks  of  peace. 

Thy  well-set  locks,  and  dove-like  countenance." 

And  Gladys  hearkened,  couched  upon  the  grass, 

Till  she  had  rested  ;  then  did  ask  the  boy, 

For  it  was  afternoon,  and  she  was  fain 

To  reach  the  shore,  "  Which  is  the  path,  I  jiray. 

That  leads  one  to  the  water  ?  "    But  he  said, 

"  Dear  lass,  I  only  know  the  narrow  way. 

The  path  that  leads  one  to  the  golden  gate 

Across  the  river."     So  she  wandered  on  ; 

And  presently  her  feet  grew  cool,  the  gr.'iss 

Standing  so  high,  and  thyme  being  thick  and  soft^ 

Tho  air  was  full  of  voices,  and  the  scent 


p84  GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAND. 

Of  mountain  blossom  loaded  all  its  wafts  ; 
For  she  was  on  the  slopes  of  a  goodly  mounts 
And  reared  in  such  a  sort  that  it  looked  dowt ' 
Into  tho  deepest  valleys,  darkest  glades, 
And  richest  plains  o'  the  island.     It  was  set 
Midway  between  the  snows  majestical 
And  a  wide  level,  such  as  men  would  choose 
For  growing  wlieat ;  and  some  one  said  to  her, 
"  It  is  the  hill  Parnassus."     So  she  walked 
Yet  on  its  lower  slope,  and  she  could  hear 
The  calling  of  an  unseen  multitude 
To  some  upon  the  mountain,  "  Give  us  moro ; '"" 
And  others  said,  "  We  are  tired  of  this  old  world" 
Make  it  look  new  again,"     Then  there  were  somo 
Who  answered  lovingly — (the  dead  yet  speak 
From  that  high  mountain,  as  the  living  do)  ; 
But  others  sang  desponding,  "  We  have  kept 
The  vision  for  a  chosen  few  :  we  love 
Fit  audience  better  than  a  rough  huzza 
From  the  unreasoning  crowd." 

Then  words  ca.ine  t.o: 
"  There  was  a  time,  you  poets,  was  a  time 
When  all  the  poetry  was  ours,  and  made. 
By  some  who  climbed  the  mountain  from  our  midst. 
W«  loved  it  then,  we  sang  it  in  our  streets 
O,  it  grows  obsolete  !  Be  you  as  they  : 
Our  heroes  die  and  drop  away  from  us ; 
Oblivion  folds  them  'neath  her  dusky  wing, 
Fair  copies  v/asted  to  the  hungering  world. 
Save  them.     We  fall  so  low  for  lack  of  them, 
That  many  of  us  think  scorn  of  honest  trade, 
And  take  no  pride  in  our  own  shops  ;  who  care 
Oni/  to  quit  a  calling,  will  not  make 
The  calling  what  it  might  be  :  who  despise 
Their  work,  Fate  lauglis  at,  and  doth  let  the  work 
l>Uii,  aud  degrade  them." 


"      GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAIVD.  385 

Then  did  Gladv^s  smile  : 
"  Heroes  !  "  quoth  she  ;   "  yet,  now  T  tliink  on  it, 
There  was  the  jolly  g:oldstuith,  brave  Sir  Hugh, 
Certes,  a  hero  ready-made.     Mt-thiuks 
I  see  him  burnishing  of  golden  gear, 
Tankard  and  charger,  and  a-muttering  low, 
'  London  is  thirsty' — (then  he  weighs  a  chain)  : 
'  'Tis  an  ill  thing,  my  masters.     I  would  give 
The  worth  of  this,  and  many  such  as  this 
To  bring  it  water.' 

"Ay,  and  after  him 
There  came  up  Guy  of  London,  lettered  son 
O'  the  honest  lighterman.     I'll  think  on  him, 
Leaning  ui)on  the  bridge  on  summer  eves, 
After  his  shop  was  closed  :  a  still,  grave  man, 
With  melancholy  eyes.     '  While  these  are  hale,' 
He  saitii,  when  he  looks  down  and  marks  the  crowd 
Cheerly  working  ;   where  the  river  marge 
Is  blocked  with  ships  and  boats  ;  and  all  the  wharves 
Swarm,  and  the  cranes  swing  in  with  merchandise; — 
'  While  these  are  hale,  'tis  well,  'tis  very  well. 
But,  O  good  Lord,'  saith  he,  "  when  these  are  sick, — 
I  fear  me,  Lord,  this  excellent  workmanship 
Of  Tiiine  is  counted  for  a  cumbrance  then. 
Ay,  ay,  my  hearties  1  many  a  man  of  you. 
Struck  down,  or  maimed,  or  fevered,  shrinks  away, 
And,  mastered  in  that  fight  for  lai^k  of  aid, 
Creeps  shivering  to  a  corner,  and  there  dies.' 
"Well,  we  have  heard  the  rest. 

"  Ah,  next  I  think 
Upon  the  merchant  car)tain,  stout  of  heart 
To  dare  and  to  endure.     '  Robert,'  saith  he 
(The  navigator  Knox  to  his  manful  son), 
"I  sit  a  captive  from  the  ship  detained  ; 
This  heathenry  doth  let  tb"e  visit  her. 

25 


386  GLADYS  AND  TIER  ISLAND. 

Remember,  son,  if  thou,  alas  I  shouldst  fail 
To  ransom  thy  poor  father,  they  are  free 
As  yet,  the  manners  ;  have  wives  at  home, 
As  1  have  ,  ay,  aud  Hberty  is  sweet 
To  all  men.     For  the  ship,  she  is  not  ours, 
Therefore,  'beseech  thee,  son,  lay  on  the  mate 
This  my  command,  to  leave  me,  and  set  sail. 
As  for  thyself — '  '  Good  father,'  saith  the  son  ; 
*  I  will  not,  father,  ask  your  blessing  now, 
Becatise,  for  fair,  or  else  for  evil,  fate. 
We  two  shall  meet  again.'     And  so  they  did. 
The  dusky  men,  peeling  off  cinnamon, 
And  beating  nutmeg  clusters  from  the  tree, 
Ransom  and  bribe  contemned.     The  good  ship  sail- 
ed,— 
The  son  returned  to  share  his  father's  cell. 

"O,  there  are  many  such.     "Would  I  had  wit 

Their  worth  to  sing  1  "  With  that,  she  turned  her 

feet. 
"I  am  tired  now,"  said  Gladys,  "  of  their  talk 
Around  this  hill  Parnassus."     And,  behold, 
A  piteous  sight, — an  old,  blind,  graybeard  king 
Led  by  a  fool  with  bells.     ISow  this  was  loved 
Of  the  crowd  below  the  hill ;  and  when  he  called 
For  his  lost  kingdom,  and  bewailed  his  age, 
And   plained   on  his   unkind   daughters,  they   were 

known 
To  say,  that  if  the  best  of  gold  and  gear 
Could  have  bought  him  back  his  kingdom,  and  mado 

kind 
The  hard  hearts  which  had  broken  his  erewhilo, 
They  would  liave  gladly  paid  it  from  their  store, 
Many  times  over.     What  is  done  is  done, 
No  help.     The  ruined  majesty  passed  on. 
And,  look  you  I  one  who  met  her  as  she  walked 
Sliov;cd  her  ji  mouutaiu  i.yrujju.  lovely  a»  hght. 


GLA DYS  A XD  HER  ISLAND.  1^1 


Her  name  (Enone  ;  and  she  mourned  and  luourned, 
"  O  Mother  Ida,"  and  she  could  not  cease, 
No   nor  be  comforted. 

And  aft^r  thiB, 
Soon  there  came  by,  arrayed  in  Norman  cap 
And  kirtle,  an  Arcadian  villager, 
Who  said,  "  I  pray  you,  have  you  chanced  to  meet 
One  Gabriel  ?  "  and  she  sighed  ;  but  Gladys  took 
And  kissed  her  hand  :  she  could  not  answer  her, 
Because  she  guessed  the  end. 

With  that  it  drew 
To  evening  ;  and  as  Gladys  wandered  on 
In  the  calm  weather,  she  beheld  the  wave, 
And  she  ran  down  to  set  her  i^&t  again 
On  the  sea-margin,  which  was  covered  thick 
With  white  shell-skeletons.     The  sky  was  red 
As  wine.     The  water  played  among  bare  ribs 
Of  many  wrecks,  that  lay  half-buried  therb 
In  the  sand.     She  saw  a  cave,  and  moved  thereto 
To  ask  her  way,  and  one  so  innocent 
Came  out  to  meet  her,  that,  with  marvelling  mute. 
She  gazed  and  gazed  into  her  sea-blue  eyes, 
For  in  them  beamed  the  untaught  ecstasy 
Of  childhood,  that  lives  on  though  youth  be  como, 
And  love  just  born. 

She  could   not  choose   but   name  her  .4iip wrecked 

prince. 
All  blushing.     She  told  Gladys  many  things 
That  ar.2  not  in  tho  story,— things,  in  sooth, 
That  Prospero  her  father  knew.     But  now 
'Twas  evening,  and  the  sun  dropped  ;  purple  stripes 
In  the  sea  were  copied  from  some  clouds  that  lay 
Out  in  the  west.     And  lo  1  the  boat,  and  mo're, 
'i'ne  freakish  tlimg  to  take  fair  Gladys  home 


388  GLADYS  AXD  HER  ISLAND. 

Sheinowe(i    her,  bat  sut  Glarlytook  the  heim  : 

"  Peace,  peace  !  "  she  said  ;  "be  good  :  you  shall  not 

steer, 
For  T  am  your  liege  lady."     Then  she  sang 
The  sweetest  song  she  knew  all  the  way  home. 

Sa  Gladys  set  her  feet  upon  the  sand  ; 
While  in  the  sunset  glory  died  away 
The  peaks  of  that  blest  island. 

"  Fare  you  well, 
My  country,  my  own  kingdom,"  then  she  said, 
"  Till  1  go  visit  you  again,  farewell." 

She   looked    toward    their    house    with    -whom  she 

dwelt, — 
The  carriages  were  coming.     Hastening  up. 
She  was  in  time  to  meet  them  at  the  door, 
And  lead  the  sleepy  little  ones  within  ; 
And  some  were  cross  and  shivered,  and  her  dames 
Were  weary  and  riglit  hard  to  please  ;  but  she 
Felt  like  a  beggar  suddenly  endowed 
With  e  warm  cloak  to  'fend  her  from  the  cold. 
"For,  come  what  will,"  she  said,  "  1  had  to-dayy 
There  is  an  island." 


THE  MORAL. 

What  is  the  moral  ?     Let  us  think  awhile, 
Taking  the  editorial  Wk  to  help, 
It  sounds  respectable. 

The  moral  ;  yes, 
We  always  read,  when  any  fable  ends, 
"  Hence  we  may  learn."     A  moro.I  must  be  found. 
What  do  you  think  of  tliis  :   "  llenco  wp  may  learn 
That  dolphins  swim  about  the  coast  of  Wales. 


And  Admiralty  maps  should  now  be  drawn 
By  teacher-girls,  because  their  sight  is  keen, 
And  they  can  spy  out  islands."     Will  that  do  ? 
No,  that  is  far  too  plain, — too  evident. 

Perhaps  a  general  moralizing  vein — 

(We  know  we  have  a  happy  knack  that  way. 

We  have  observed,  moreover,  that  young  men 

Are  fond  of  good  advice,  and  so  are  girls ; 

Especially  of  that  meandering  kind 

Which,  winding  on  so  sweetly,  treats  of  all 

They  ought  to  be  and  do  and  think  and  wear. 

As  one  may  say,  from  creeds  to  comforters. 

Indeed,  we  much  prefer  that  sort  ourselves, 

So  soothing).     Good,  a  moralizing  vein: 

That  is  the  thing ;   but  how  to  manage  it  ? 

"  Hence  we  may  learn,'^  if  we  be  so  inclined. 

That  life  goes  best  with  those  who  take  it  best ; 

That  wit  can  spin  from  work  a  golden  robe 

To  queen  it  in  ;  that  who  can  paint  at  will 

A  private  picture-gallery,  should  not  cry 

For  shillings  that  will  let  him  in  to  look 

At  some  by  others  painted.     Furthermore, 

Tlence  we  may  learn,  you  poets — {and  we  count 

For  poets  all  who  eve?'  felt  that  such 

They  were,  and  all  who  secretly  have  known 

That  such  they  could  be  ;  ay,  moreover,  all 

Who  wind  the  robes  of  ideality 

About  the  bareness  of  their  lives,  and  Jiang 

Comforting  curtains,  kyiit  of  fnicjf  s  yarn. 

Nightly  betwixt  them  and  the  frosty  world), — 

ileuce  we  may  learn,  you  poets,  that  of  all 

We  should  be  most  content.     The  earth  is  given 

To  us  :  we  reign  by  virtue  of  a  sense 

Which  lets  us  hear  the  rhythm  of  that  old  verse, 

The  ring  of  that  old  tune  whereto  she  spins. 

Humuuity  is  given  to  us ;  we  reign 


39°  GLADYS  AND  HER  ISLAND. 


By  virtue  of  a  sense  whii^h  lets  us  in 
To  know  its  troubles  ere  they  have  been  told, 
And  take  them  home  and  lull  them  into  rest 
With  mournfullest  music.     Time  is  piven  to  us,— 
Time  past,  time  future.     Who,  <rood  sooth,  beside 
Have  seen  it  well,  have  walked  this  empty  world 
When  she  went  steaming,  and  from  pulpy  hills 
Have  marked  the  spurting  of  their  flamy  crowns? 

Have  not  we  seen  the  tabernacle  pitched, 
An  i  peered  between  the  linen  curtains,  blue, 
Purple,  and  scarlet,  at  the  dimness  there. 
And,  frighted,  have  not  dared  to  look  again? 
But,  quaint  anti<iuity  !  beheld,  we  thought, 
A  chest  that  might  have  held  the  manna  pot, 
And  Aaron's  rod  that  budded.     Ay,  we  leaned 
Over  the  edge  of  Britain,  while  the  fleet 
Of  Caesar  loomed  and  neared  ;  then,  afterwards. 
We  saw  fair  Venice  looking  at  herself 
In  the  glass  below  her,  while  her  Doge  Avent  forth 
lu  all  his  bravery  to  the  wedding. 

This, 
tlowever,  counts  for  nothing  to  the  grace 
We  wot  of  in  Time  future  :— therefore  add. 
And  afterwards  have  done  :  "  Hence  we  may  learn,*'' 
That  though  it  be  a  grand  and  comely  thing 
To  be  unhappy — (and  we  think  it  is, 
Because  so  many  grand  and  clever  folk 
Uave  found  out  reasons  for  unhappiness, 
And  talked  about  uncomfortable  things, — 
Low  motives,  bores,  and  shams,  and  holiowness, 
Tlie  hullowness  o'  the  world,  till  we  at  last 
Have  scarcely  dared  to  jump  or  stamp,  for  fear, 
B«mg  so  holiuw,  it.  should  break  some  day, 
And  let  us  in), — yet,  since  we  aro  nut  grand, 
O,  xiut  al  ail,  and  as  for  cieveruuab, 


SONGS  WITH  PRELUDES.  39 ^ 

That  may  be  or  may  not  be,— it  is  well 
For  us  to  be  as  happy  as  we  can ! 

Agreed  ;  and  with  a  word  to  the  nobler  sex, 
As  thus:  We  pray  you  carry  not  your  guns 
On  the  full  cock  ;  we  pray  you  set  your  pride 
In  its  proper  place,  and  never  be  ashamed 
Of  any  honest  calling, — let  us  add, 
And  end  :  For  all  the  rest,  hold  up  your  heads 
And  mind  your  English. 


SONGS  WITH  PRELUDES. 


WEDLOCK. 

Thk  sun  was  streaming  in  :  I  woke,  and  said, 

"  Where  is  my  wife, — that  has  been  made  my  wife 

Only  this  year  ?  "     The  casement  stood  ajar  : 

I  did  but  lift  my  head  :  The  pear-tree  dropped. 

The  great   white  pear-tree  dropped  with  dew  from 

leaves 
And  blossom,  under  heavens  of  happy  blue. 

My  wife  had  wakened  first,  and  had  gone  down 

Into  the  orchard.     All  the  air  was  calm  ; 

Audible  humming  filled  it.     At  the  roots 

Of  i)eony  bushes  lay  in  rose-red  heajjs, 

Or  snowy,  fallen  bloom.     The  crag-like  hills 

Were  tossing  down  their  silver  messengers. 

And  two  brown  foreigners,  called  cuckoo-birds, 

Gave  them  good  answer  :  all  things  else  were  mute; 

An  idle  world  lay  listening  to  their  talk, 

They  had  it  to  themselves. 


392  SO  Arcs  WTTFT  PRELUDES. 

What  ailt:  my  wife  ? 
I  know  not  if  aught  ails  her  ;  though  her  step 
Tell  of  a  conscious  quiet,  lest  I  wake. 
She  moves  atween  the  almond-houghs,  and  bends 
One  thick  with  bloom  to  look  on  it.     "  O  love  I 
A  little  while  thou  hast  withdrawn  thyself, 
At  unaware  to  think  thy  thoughts  alone  : 
How  sweet,  and  yet  pathetic  to  my  heart 
The  reason.     Ah!  thou  art  no  more  thine  own. 
Mine,  mine,  O  love  !     Tears  gather  'neath  my  lids, — 
Sorrowful  tears  for  thy  lost  liberty, 
Hecause  it  was  so  sweet.     Thy  liberty. 
That  yet,  O  love,  thou  wouldst  not  have  again. 
No  ;  all  is  right.     But  who  can  give,  or  bless, 
Or  take  a  blessing,  but  there  comes  withal 
Some  pain  ?  " 

She  walks  beside  the  lily  bed, 
And  holds  apart  her  gown  ;  she  would  not  hurt 
The  leaf-enfolded  buds,  that  have  not  looked 
Yet  on  the  daylight.     O,  thy  locks  are  brown, — 
Pairest  of  colors! — and  a  darker  brown 
The  beautiful,  dear,  veili'd,  modest  eyes. 
A  bloom  as  of  blush-roses  covers  her 
Forehead,  and  throat,  and  cheek.     Health  breathes 

with  her, 
And  graceful  vigor.     Fair  and  wondrous  soul  I 
To  think  that  thou  art  mine  I 

My  wife  came  in, 
And  moved  into  the  chamber.     As  for  me, 
1  lit'ard.  but  lay  as  one  that  nothing  hears, 
And  feigned  to  be  asleep. 

I. 

The  racing  river  leaped  and  sang 
Full  blithely  in  the  perfect  weather, 

All  round  the  mountain  echoes  rang, 
For  blue  and  green  were  glad  together. 


sojYGs  with  preludes.  393 

II. 

This  rained  out  light  from  every  part, 

And  that  with  songs  of  joy  was  thrilling  ; 

But,  in  the  hollow  of  my  heart, 

There  ached  a  place  that  wanted  filliiig. 

III. 

Before  the  road  and  river  meet, 

And  stejjping-stones  are  wet  and  gUsten, 

I  heard  a  sound  of  laughter  sweet, 
And  paused  to  like  it,  and  to  Usten. 

IV. 

I  heard  the  chanting  waters  flow, 

The  cushats  note,  the  bee's  low  humming,— 
Then  turned  tlie  hedge,  and  did  not  know — 

liow  could  1  ? — that  my  time  was  coming. 

V. 

A  girl  upon  the  nighest  stone. 

Half  doubtful  of  the  deed,  was  standing, 
So  far  the  shallow  Hood  had  flown 

Beyond  the  'customed  leap  of  landing. 

VI. 

9he  knew  not  any  need  of  me, 

Yet  me  she  waited  all  unweeting  ; 

We  thought  not  I  had  crossed  the  sea, 
And  half  the  sphere  to  give  her  meetir 

VII. 

I  \ratled  out,  her  eyes  I  met, 

I  wished  the  moments  had  been  hours  ; 
1  took  her  ill  my  arms,  and  set 

Her  dainty  feet  among  the  Howers. 


394  SONGS  WITH  PRELUDES. 


VIII. 


Her  fellow-maids  in  copse  and  lane, 

Ah!  still,  methinks,  I  hear  them  calling j 

The  wind's  soft  whisper  in  the  plain. 
The  oushat's  coo,  the  water's  falling. 


IX. 


But  now  it  is  a  year  ago, 

But  now  possession  crowns  endeavor  5 
I  took  her  in  my  heart,  to  grow 

And  till  the  hollow  place  forever. 


REGRET. 

O  TIIAT  word  Rkgrkt  1 

There   liave  been  nigbts  and  morns  when  wo  have 

sighed, 
"  Let  us  alone,  Regret  1  We  are  content 
To  throw  thee  all  our  past,  so  thou  wilt  sleep 
For  aye."     But  it  is  patient,  and  it  wakes  ; 
It  hath  not  learned  to  cry  itseli  to  sleep. 
But  plainetb  on  the  bed  that  it  is  hard. 

We  did  amiss  when  we  did  wish  it  gone 
And  over:  sorrows  hniiiaiiize  our  race  ; 
Tears  are  the  showers  that  fertilize  this  world  , 
And  memory  of  things  precious  keepeth  warm 
The  heart  that  once  did  hold  theuj. 

They  are  poor 
That  have  lost  nothing  ;  they  are  poorer  far 
Who,  losing,  have  forgotten  ;  they  most  poor 
Of  all,  who  lose  and  wish  they  MIGHT  forget. 
For  lite  is  one,  and  in  its  warp  and  woof 
There  ruxis  a  thread  of  gold  that  ghtters  fair, 


SOJVGS  WITH  PRELUDES.  395 

And  sometimes  in  the  pattern  shows  most  sweet 
Where  there  are  sombre  colors.     It  is  true 
That  we  liave  wept.     But  O  !  this  thread  of  gold, 
We  would  not  have  it  tarnish  ;  let  us  turn 
Oft  and  look  back  upon  the  wondrous  web, 
And  wlieu  it  shineth  sometimes  we  shall  know 
That  memorv  is  possession. 

I. 

When  I  remember  something  which  I  had. 
But  which  is  gone,  and  I  must  do  without, 

I  sometimes  wonder  how  I  can  be  glad, 

Even  in  cowslip  time  when  hedges  sprout; 

It  makes  me  sigh  to  think  on  it, — but  yet 

My  days  will  not  be  better  days,  should  I  forget. 

II. 

When  I  remember  something  promised  me, 
But  which  1  never  had,  nor  can  have  now. 

Because  the  promiser  we  no  more  see 

In  countries  that  accord  with  mortal  vow  J 

When  1  remember  this,  I  mourn, — but  yet 

My  happier  days  are  not  the  days  when  I  forget. 


LAMENTATION. 

I  RKAD  upon  that  book, 
Which  down  tlie  golden  gulf  doth  let  us  look 
On  the  sweet  days  of  pastoral  majesty  ; 
1  read  upon  that  book 
How,  when  the  Shepherd  Prince  did  flee 
(Red  Esau's  twin),  he  desolate  took 
The  stone  for  a  pillow  :  then  he  fell  on  sleop. 
And  lo  !  there  was  a  ladder.     Lo  I  there  hung 


39^  SOA^GS  WITH  PRELUDES. 

A  ladder  from  the  star-place,  and  it  clung 

To  the  earth  :  it  tied  her  so  to  heaven  \  and  O  i! 

There  fluttered  wings  ; 
Then  were  ascending  and  descending  things 

That  stepped  to  him  where  he  lay  low  ; 
Then  up  the  ladder  would  a-drifting  go 
This  feathered  brood  of  heaven),  and  show 
Small  as  white  flakes  in  winter  that  are  blown 
Together,  underneath  the  great  white  throne. 

When  I  had  shut  the  book,  I  said  : 
"  Now,  as  for  me,  my  dreams  upon  my  bed 

Are  not  like  Jacob's  dream  ; 
Yet  I  have  got  it  in  my  life  ;  yes,  I, 
And  many  more :  it  doth  not  us  beseem, 

Therefore,  to  sigh. 
Is  there  not  hung  a  ladder  in  our  sky  ? 
Yea  ;  and,  moreover,  all  the  way  up  on  high 
1>  thickly  peopled  with  the  prayers  of  men. 

"We  liavH  no  dream  I      What  then  ? 
Like  wingi-d  wayfarers  the  height  they  scalo 
(By  Him  that  oilers  them  they  shall  prevail) — 
The  jjiayers  of  men. 
But  where  is  found  a  prayer  for  me  ; 

How  should  1  pray  ? 
My  heart  is  sick,  and  full  of  strife. 
I  heard  one  whisper  with  departing  breath, 
•  Suffer  us  not,  for  any  pains  of  death. 

To  fall  from  Thee.' 
But  O,  the  i)ains  of  life!  the  i)ains  of  life! 

There  is  no  comfort  now.  and  naught  to  ■win, 
But  yet. — I  will  begin." 


"  Preserve  to  me  my  wealth,"  I  do  not  Bay, 

For  tliat  is  Avasted  away; 
And  much  of  it  was  cank(!red  ere  it  went. 


SONGS  WITH  PRELUDES.  397 


"  Pi-pserve  to  me  7iiy  health,"  I  cannot  say. 

For  that,  upon  a  day, 
Went  after  other  dehghts  to  banishment. 

II. 

What  can  I  pray  ?     "  Give  me  forgetfulness  ?  " 

No,  I  would  still  possess 
Past  away  smiles,  though  present  fronts  be  stern. 
"  Grive  me  again  my  kindred  ?  "     Nay  ;  not  so. 

Not  idle  prayers.     We  know 
They  that  have  crossed  the  river  cannot  return. 

III. 

I  do  not  pray,  "  Comfort  me  1  comfort  me  I  " 

For  how  should  comfort  be  ? 
0_0  that  cooing  mouth,— that  little  white  head  ! 
No  ;  but  1  pray,   "  If  it  be  not  too  late, 

Open  to  me  the  gate. 
That  1  may  find  my  babe  when  I  am  dead. 

IV. 

<  >  Show  me  the  path.     1  had  forgotten  Thee 

When  I  was  happy  and  free, 
Walking  down  here  in  the  gladsome  light  o'  the  sun  ; 
But  now  I  come  and  mourn  ;  O  set  my  feet 

In  the  road  to  Thy  blest  seat. 
And  for  the  rest,  O  God,  Thy  will  be  dono." 


DOMINION. 

When  found  the  rose  delight  in  her  fair  hue  ? 
Color  is  nothing  to  this- world  ;  'tis  1 
That  see  it.     Farther,  I  discover  soul. 
That  trees  are  nothing  to  their  fellow-treet,  i 


398  saves  WITH  PRELUDES. 

It  is  but  I  that  love  their  stateliness, 
And  I  that,  couifortinj?  my  heart,  do  sit, 
At  noon  beneath  their  shadow.     1  will  step 
On  the  ledj::es  of  this  world,  for  it  is  icine  , 
But  the  other  world  ye  wot  of  shall  go  too ;   , 
I  will  carry  it  in  my  bosom.     O  my  "world, 
That  was  not  built  with  clay  I 

Consider  it 
(This  outer  world  we  tread  on)  as  a  harp, — 
A  gracious  instrument  on  whose  fair  strings 
We  learn  those  airs  we  shall  be  set  to  play 
When  mortal  hours  are  ended.     Let  the  wings, 
Man,  of  thy  spirit  move  on  it  as  wind, 
And  draw  forth  melody.     Why  shouldst  thou  yet 
Lie  grovelling  ?     More  is  won  than  e'er  was  lost: 
Inherit.     Let  thy  day  be  to  thy  night 
A  teller  of  good  tidings.     Let  thy  praise 
Go  up  as  birds  go  up  that,  when  they  wake. 
Shake  oil  the  dew  and  soar. 

So  take  Joy  homo, 
And  make  a  place  in  thy  great  heart  for  her. 
And  give  her  time  to  grow,  and  cherish  her ; 
Then  will  she  come,  and  oft  will  sing  to  thee, 
When  thou  art  working  in  the  furrows  j  ay, 
Or  weeding  in  the  sacred  hour  of  dawn, 
it  is  a  comely  fashion  to  be  glad, — 
Joy  is  the  grace  we  say  to  God. 

Art  tired  ? 
There  is  a  rest  remaining.     Hast  thou  sinned  ? 
There  is  a  Sacrifice.     Lift  up  thy  head, 
The  lovely  world,  and  the  over-world  aliko, 
Ring  with  a  song  eterne.  a  happy  rede, 

"  Thy  Jt'ATiiiiB  Loyiss  thek." 


SONGS  WITH  PRELUDES.  399 

I. 

Yon  moored  mackerel  fleet 

llanjjs  thick  as  a  swarm  of  bees, 
Or  a  chisterin}?  village  street 

Fouiidationless  built  on  the  seas. 

II. 

The  mariners  ply  their  craft, 

Each  set  in  his  castle  frail  ; 
His  care  is  all  for  the  draught, 

And  he  dries  the  rain-beaten  sailo 

III. 

Per  rain  came  down  in  the  nighty 

And  thunder  muttered  full  oft;, 
But  now  the  azure  is  bright, 

And  hawks  are  wheeling  aloft. 

IV. 

I  take  the  land  to  my  breast. 

In  her  coat  with  daisies  fine  ; 
For  me  are  the  hills  in  their  best, 

And  all  that's  made  is  mine. 


Sing  high  !  "  Though  the  red  sun  dipf 

There  yet  is  a  day  for  me  ; 
Nor  youth  I  count  for  a  ship 

That  long  ago  foundered  at  sea. 

VI. 

"  Did  the  lost  love  die  and  depart  ? 

Many  times  since  we  have  met; 
For  I  hold  the  years  in  my  heart, 

And  all  that  was — is  yet. 


400  SONGS  ^ilH  PRELUDES. 


VII. 

"  T  prant  to  the  kinp:  his  reiprn  ; 

Let  us  yield  liim  homage  due  ; 
But  over  the  lauds  there  are  twain. 

O  king,  I  must  rule  as  you. 

III. 

"T  errant  to  the  wise  his  meed, 
But  his  yoke  I  will  not  brook. 

For  God  taucrht  ME  to  read.— 
He  ieut  uie  the  world  for  a  book." 


PRIENDSniP. 

ON  A  STTN-PORTRATT   OF   HKR   HUSBAND,  SENT   BY  HIS 
WIFE   TO    THEIR   FRIEND. 

Beautiful  eyes, —  and  shall  I  see  no  more 

The  living  thought  when  it  would  leap  from  them. 

And  play  in  all  its  sweetness  'neath  their  lids  ? 

Here  was  a  man  familiar  withfair  heights 

That  poets  climb.     Upon  his  peitce  the  tears 

And  troubles  of  our  race  deep  inroads  madeo 

Yet  life  was  sweet  to  him  ;  he  kept  his  heart 

At  home.  Wlio  saw  his  wife  might  well  have  thought — 

"God  lofejs  rliis  man.     He  chose  a  wife  for  him — 

The  true  one  !  "     C)  sweet  eyes,  that  seem  to  livou 

I  know  so  much  of  you,  tell  me  the  rest  I 

Eyes  full  of  fatherhood  and  tender  care 

For  small,  young  children.     Is  a  message  here 

l^hat  you  would  fain  have  sent,  but  had  not  timoV 

If  such  there  be,  I  promise,  by  long  love 

And  perfect  friendship,  by  all  trust  that  comes 

Of  understanding,  that  I  will  not  fail, 

No>  uor  delay  to  tind  it. 


SONGS  WITH  PRELUDES.  4OI 

O,  my  heart 
Will  often  pain  me  as  for  some  strange  fault, — 
Soiue  gn"ave  defect  in  nature, — when  I  think 
How  I,  delighted,  'neath  those  olive-trees, 
Moved  to  the  music  of  the  tideless  main, 
While,  with  sore  weeping,  in  an  island  home 
They  laid  that  much-loved  head  beneath  the  sod, 
A  nd  I  did  not  know. 

I. 

I  stand  on  the  bridge  where  last  we  stood 
When  delicate  leaves  were  young  ; 

The  children  called  us  from  yonder  wood. 
While  a  mated  blackbird  sung. 

II. 

Ah,  yet  you  call, — in  your  gladness  call. — 

And  I  hear  your  pattering  feet; 
It  does  not  matter,  matter  at  all, 

You  fatherless  chiklren  sweet,— 

III. 

It  doe '  not  matter  at  all  to  you, 
Young  hearts  that  pleasure  besets  ; 

The  father  sleeps,  but  the  world  is  nowj 
The  child  of  his  love  forgets. 

rv. 

I  too,  it  may  be,  before  they  drop, 

The  leaves  that  flicker  to-day. 
Ere  bountiful  gleams  make  ripe  the  crop, 

Shall  pass  frcm  my  place  awaj' : 

V. 

Ere  yon  gray  cygnet  puts  on  her  white, 

Or  snow  lies  soft  on  the  wold, 
Shall  shut  these  eyes  on  the  lovely  light, 

Andleavu  the  story  untold. 
26 


4C>2  XVriVSTAm.EY. 


VI. 

Shall  I  tell  it  tliere  ?     Ah,  let  that  be, 
For  the  wariu  pulse  beats  so  hi^b  ; 

To  lovp  to-day,  and  to  breathe  aud  »ec, — 
To-morrow  perhaps  to  die, — , 

VII. 

Leave  it  with  G«)d.     But  this  I  have  knov  a, 

That  sorrow  is  over  soou  \ 
Some  in  dark  nights,  sore  weeping  alone, 

Forget  by  full  of  the  moon. 

VIII. 

But  if  all  lovod,  as  the  few  can  love, 
This  world  would  seldom  be  well  ; 

And  who  need  wish,  if  he  dwells  above, 
For  a  deep,  a  long  death-kuell. 

IX. 

There  are  four  or  five,  who,  passing  this  place 
While  they  live  will  name  me  yet  ; 

And  when  I  am  gone  Avill  think  ou  my  face, 
And  feel  a  kind  of  regret. 


WINSTANLEY. 


THE    APOL(  QT. 


Quoth  the  cedar  to  the  reeds  and  rushes, 

"  Water-grass,  you  know  not  what  I  do  ; 
Know  not  of  my  storms,  nor  of  my  hushes, 
And — I  know  rmt  ■j/att," 


WINSTANLEY.  403 


Quoth  the  reeds  and  rushes,  "  Wind  !  O  waken  I 

Breathe,  O  wind,  and  set  our  ansiver  free. 
For  we  have  no  voice,  of  you  forsaken. 
For  the  cedar-tree." 

Quoth  the  earth  at  midnight  to  the  ocean, 

'*  Wilderness  of  water,  lost  to  view. 
Naught  you  are  to  me  but  sounds  of  motion  ; 
1  am,  naught  to  you." 

Quoth  the  ocean,  ^'^  Dawn  !  0  fairest,  clearest, 

Touch  me  with  thy  golden  fingers  bland  ; 
For  I  have  no  smile  till  thou  appearest 
For  the  lovely  land." 

Quoth  the  hero  dying,  whelmed  in  glory, 

"  Many  blame  me,  few  have  understood  ; 
Ah,  my  folk,  to  you  I  leave  a  story, — 
Make  its  meaning  good." 

Quoth  the  folk,  "  Sing,  poet  !  teach  us,  prove  U8  3 

Surely  we  shall  learn  the  meaning  then  ; 
"Wound  us  with  a  pain  divine,  0  move  us, 
For  this  man  of  men." 


WinstanTjKY's  deed,  you  kindly  folk, 

With  it  1  fill  my  lay, 
And  a  nobler  man  ne'er  walked  the  world, 

Let  his  name  be  what  it  may. 

The  good  ship  "  Snowdrop  "  tarried  long, 

Up  at  the  vane  looked  he  ; 
"  Belike,"  he  said,  for  the  wind  had  dropped, 

"  She  lieth  becalmed  at  sea." 

The  lovely  ladies  flocked  within, 

And  still  would  each  one  say, 
"  Good  mercer,  be  the  ships  come  up?  " 

But  still  he  answered  "  I>Jay." 


Then  stepped  two  mariners  down  the  street, 

With  looics  of  grief  and  fear  ; 
"Now,  If  Winstanley  be  j^our  name, 

Wt  bring  you  evil  cheer  1 

"Tor    the    good    ship  'Snowdrop'  struck— she 
struclv 

On  tiie  rock, — the  Eddystone, 
And  down  she  went  with  threescore  men, 

We  two  being  left  alone. 

"  Down  in  the  deep,  with  freight  and  crew, 

Past  any  help  she  lies. 
And  never  a  bale  has  come  to  shoro 

Of  all  thy  merchandise." 

"  For  cloth  o'  gold  and  comely  frieze," 

Winstanley  said,  and  sighed, 
"  For  v^f  Ivet  coif,  or  costly  coat, 

Thej  fathoms  deep  may  bide. 

"  O  thou  brave  skipper,  blithe  and  kind, 

O  mariners,  bold  and  true, 
Sorry  at  lipart,  right  sorry  aTii  I, 

A-thinking  of  yours  and  you. 

"Manj-  long  days  Winstanley's  breast 

Shall  feel  a  weight  within, 
For  a  waft  of  wind  he  shall  be  'feared 

And  trading  count  but  sin. 

*'  To  him  no  more  it  shall  be  joy 

To  pace  the  cheerful  town, 
And  see  the  lovely  ladies  gay 

btep  on  in  velvet  gown." 


WINSTANLEY.  405 


The  •'  Snowdrop"  sank  at  Lauiruas  tide, 

All  under  the  yeasty  spray  ; 
Oa  Christinas  Eve  the  brig  "  Couteut" 

Was  also  cast  away. 

He  little  thought  o'  New  Year's  night, 
So  jolly  as  he  sat  then, 

"Wliile  drank  the  toast  and  praised  the  roaot 
The  round-faced  Aldermen, — 

While  serving-lads  ran  to  and  fro, 

Pouring  th-^  ruby  wine, 
Ard  jellies  trembled  on  the  board, 

And  towering  pasties  fine, — 

While  loud  huzzas  ran  up  the  roof 
Till  the  lamps  did  rock  o'erhead, 

And  holly  boughs  from  rafters  hung 
Dropped  down  their  berries  red, — 

■Be  littl^  thought  on  Plymouth  Iloe, 

With  every  rising  tide, 
now  the  wave  washed  in  his  sailor  lads, 

And  laid  them  side  by  side. 

There  stepped  a  stranger  to  the  board: 

"Now,  straijger,  who  be  ye  ?  " 
He  looked  to  right,  he  looked  to  left. 

And  "  Rest  you  merry,"  quoth  he  \ 

*'  For  you  did  not  see  the  brig  go  down, 

Or  ever  a  storm  hud  blown  j 
For  you  did  not  see  the  white  wave  rear 

At  the  rock, — the  Eddystone. 

"She  drave  at  the  rock  with  sternsails  set; 

Crash  wi  at  the  masts  iu  twain  ; 
She  staggered  back  with  her  mortal  blow, 

Then  leaped  at  it  again. 


40b  yriNSTA  JVLE  K 


*'  There  roso  a  {rreat  cry,  bitter  and  strong, 

The  misty  moon  looked  out  I 
And  the  water  swarmed  witli  seamen's  heads, 

And  the  wreck  was  strewed  about. 

"I  saw  her  mainsail  lash  the  sea 

As  I  clung:  to  the  rock  alone  ; 
Then  she  heeled  over,  and  down  she  wont, 

And  sank  like  any  stone. 

"  She  was  a  fair  ship,  but  all's  one  I 
For  naught  could  bide  the  shock." 

"I  will  take  horse,"  Winstauley  said, 
"  And  see  this  deadly  rock  ; 

"  For  never  again  shall  bark  o'  mine 

Sail  over  the  windy  sea, 
Unless,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  for  this 

Be  found  a  remedy." 

Winstanley  rode  to  Plymouth  town 

Ail  in  the  sleet  and  the  snow, 
And  he  looked  around  on  shore  and  sound 

As  he  stood  on  Plymouth  Iloe, 

Till  a  pillar  of  spray  rose  far  away, 

And  shot  up  its  stately  head, 
Reared  and  fell  over,  and  reared  again  : 

"  'Tis  the  rock  I  the  rock  I  "  he  said. 

Straight  to  the  Mayor  he  took  his  way, 
"Good  Master  Mayor,"  quoth  he, 

-'  T  am  a  mercer  of  I^ondon  town, 
And  owner  of  vessels  three, — 

"  But  for  your  rock  of  dark  renown, 
i      I  had  five  to  track  the  main." 
"  Yon  are  one  of  many,"  the  old  Mayor  said, 
**  Tluit  ou  the  rock  complain. 


Vjn^STANLEY.  i^Qf] 


"  An  ill  rock,  mercer  1  your  words  ring  right, 
Well  with  my  thoughts  they  chime, 

For  my  two  sons  to  the  world  to  come 
It  sent  before  their  time." 

"Lend  me  a  lighter,  good  Master  Mayor, 

And  a  8core  of  shipwrights  free, 
For  1  think  to  raise  a  lantera  tower 

On  this  rock  o'  destiny." 

The  old  Mayor  Inughed,  but  sighed  also  ; 

"  Ah,  youth,''  quoth  he,  "  is  rash  ; 
Soonor,  young  man   thou'It  root  it  out 

From  the  see  that  doth  it  lash. 

"  "Who  sails  too  near  its  jagged  teeth, 

He  shall  have  evil  lot ; 
For  the  calmest  seas  that  tumble  thero 

Froth  like  a  boiling  pot. 

"  And  the  heavier  seas  few  look  on  nigh. 

But  straight  they  lay  him  dead  ; 
A  seventy-gun-ship,  sir  1 — they'll  shoot 

liigher  than  her  mast-head. 

"  O,  beacons  sighted  in  the  dark, 

They  are  right  welcome  things, 
And  pitchpots  flaming  on  the  shore 

Show  fair  as  angel  wings. 

"  Hast  gold  in  hand  ?  then  light  the  laad-, 

It  'longs  to  thee  and  me  ; 
But  let  alone  the  deadly  rook 

In  God  Almighty's  sea." 

Yet  said  he,   "  Nay, — I  must  away, 

On  tilt  rock  to  set  my  feet  ; 
My  debts  are  paid,  my  will  I  made, 

Or  ever  I  did  thee  greet. 


4o8  WINS  TANLE  Y. 


"  If  I  must  die,  then  let  me  die 
By  the  rock  and  not  elsewhere  j 

If  I  may  live,  O  let  me  live 
To  mount  my  lighthouse  stair." 

The  old  Mayor  looked  him  in  the  face. 
And  answered  :  "  Have  thy  way  ; 

Thy  heart  is  stout,  as  if  round  about 
It  was  braced  with  an  iron  stay  : 

"Uave  thy  will,  mercer  I  choose  thy  men. 
Put  off  from  the  storm-rid  shore  ; 

God  with  thee  be,  or  I  shall  see 
Thy  face  and  theirs  no  more." 

Heavily  plunged  the  breaking  wave, 

And  foam  flew  up  the  lea, 
Morning  and  even  the  drifted  snow 

Fell  into  the  dark  gray  sea. 

Winstanley  chose  him  men  and  gear  ; 

He  said,  "  My  time  1  waste," 
For  the  seas  ran  seething  up  the  shore. 

And  the  wrack  drave  uu  in  haste. 

But  twenty  days  he  waited  and  more* 

Pacing  tlie  strand  alone. 
Or  ever  he  set  his  maidy  foot 

On  the  rock, — the  Eddystone. 

Then  he  and  the  sea  began  their  strife, 
And  worked  with  power  and  might: 

Whatever  the  man  reared  up  by  day 
The  sea  broke  down  by  night. 

He  wrought  at  ebb  with  bar  and  beam, 

He  sailed  to  shore  at  flow  ', 
And  at  his  aide,  by  that  same  tide, 

Came  bar  and  beam  also. 


WINSTANLEY.  409 


"Give  in,  give  in,"  the  old  Mayor  cried, 

"  Or  thou  wilt  rue  the  day." 
**  Tender  he  goes,"  the  townsfolk  sighed, 

"  But  the  rock  will  have  its  way. 

"  For  all  his  looks  that  are  so  stout. 

And  his  speeches  brave  and  fair, 
He  may  wait  on  the  wind,  wait  on  the  wave, 

But  he'll  build  no  lighthouse  there." 

In  fine  weather  and  foul  weather 

The  rock  his  arts  did  flout. 
Through  the  long  days  and  the  short  days, 

Till  all  that  year  ran  out. 

With  fine  weather  and  foul  weather 

Another  year  came  in  : 
"To  take  his  wage,"  the  workman  said, 

"  We  almost  count  a  sin." 

Now  March  was  gone,  came  April  in, 

And  a  sea-fog  settled  down, 
And  forth  sailed  he  on  a  glassy  sea, 

He  sailed  from  Plymouth  town. 

With  men  and  stores  he  put  to  sea, 

As  he  was  wont  to  do  j 
They  showed  in  the  fog  like  ghosts  full  faiut,, — 

A  ghostly  craft  and  crew. 

And  the  sea-fog  lay  and  waxed  alway, 

For  a  long  eight  days  and  more  ; 
*'  God  help  our  men,"  quoth  the  women  then  3 

"  For  tliey  bide  long  from  shore." 

They  paced  the  Hoe  in  doubt  and  dread : 

"  Where  may  our  mariners  be  ?  " 
But  the  brooding  fog  lay  soft  as  down 

Over  the  quiet  sea- 


4IO  WINSTANLEY. 


A  Rpottish  schooner  made  the  port. 

The  tliirteenth  day  at  e'en  : 
"  As  1  aui  a  man,"  the  captain  cried, 

"  A  strange  sight  1  have  seen : 

*'  And  a  strange  sound  heard,  my  masters  all, 

At  sea,  in  the  fog  and  the  rain, 
Like  shipwriglits'  hammers  tapping  low, 

Tlien  loud,  then  low  again. 

"  And  a  stately  house  one  instant  showed, 
Through  a  rift,  on  the  vessel's  lee  ; 

What  manner  of  creatures  may  be  those 
That  build  upon  the  sea?  " 

Then  sighed  the  folk,  "  The  Lord  be  praised  !  ' 
And  they  flocked  to  the  shore  amain  ; 

All  over  the  Hoe,  that  livelong  night. 
Many  stood  out  in  the  rain. 

It  ceased,  and  the  red  sun  reared  his  head. 

And  the  rolling  fog  did  Ilee  ; 
And,  lo  I  in  the  ofTnig  faint  and  far 

Winstanley's  house  at  st*a  I 

In  fair  weather  with  mirth  and  clieer 

The  stately  tower  uprose  ; 
In  foul  weather,  witii  liunger  and  cold, 

They  were  content  to  close  ; 

Till  up  the  stair  Winstanley  went, 

To  fire  the  wick  afar  ; 
And  Plymouth  in  the  silent  night 

Looked  out,  and  s»i  w  her  stiir. 

Winstanley  set  his  foot  ashore: 

Said  he,  "  My  work  is  done  ; 
I  liold  it  strong  to  last  as  long 

As  u.ught  beneath  the  suu. 


WINS  TA  A7,  A  V  4^  ^ 


"  But  if  it  fail,  as  fail  it  may. 

Borne  down  with  ruin  and  rout, 
Another  than  I  shall  rear  it  high, 

And  brace  the  girders  stout. 

"  A  better  than  I  shall  rear  it  high, 

For  now  the  way  is  plain. 
And  though  I  were  dead,"  Winstanley  said. 

"The  hght  would  shine  again. 

'•  Yet  were  I  fain  still  to  remain, 

Watch  in  my  tower  to  keep. 
And  tend  my  light  in  the  stormiest  night 

That  ever  did  move  the  deep  ; 

"  And  if  it  stood,  why,  then  'twere  good, 

Amid  their  tremulous  stirs. 
To  count  each  stroke,  when  the  mad  waves  broke 

For  cheers  of  mariners. 

"But  if  it  fell,  then  this  were  well. 

That  I  should  with  it  fall  ; 
Since,  for  my  part,  I  have  built  my  heart 

In  the  courses  of  its  wall. 

«•  Ay  1  I  were  fain,  long  to  remain, 

"Watch  in  my  tower  to  keep. 
And  tend  my  light  in  the  storiniest  night 

That  ever  did  move  the  deep." 

With  that  Winstanley  went  his  way, 

And  left  the  rock  renowned, 
And  summer  and  winter  his  pilot  star 

Hung  bright  o'er  Plymouth  Sound. 

But  it  fell  out,  fell  out  at  last, 

That  he  would  put  to  sea. 
To  scan  once  more  his  lighthouse  towor 

On  the  rock  o'  destiny  • 


412  WINSTAMLEY. 


And  the  winds  broke,  and  the  storm  broke, 

And  wrecks  came  phinp:ing  in  ; 
None  in  the  town  that  night  lay  down 
•  Or  sleep  or  rest  to  win. 

The  great  mad  waves  were  rolling  graves, 

And  each  flung  up  its  dead  ; 
The  seething  flow  was  white  below, 

And  black  the  sky  o'erhead. 

And  when  the  dawn,  the  dull,  gray  dawn, 

Broke  on  the  trembling  town, 
And  men  looked  south  to  the  harbor  moutil, 

The  lighthouse  tower  was  down. — 

Down  in  the  deep  where  he  doth  slfep 

Who  made  it  shine  afar, 
And  then  in  the  night  that  drowned  its  light  \ 

Set,  with  his  pilot  star. 


Many  fair  tombs  in  the  glorious  glooms 

At  Westminster  they  shorn  ; 
The  bra  re  and  (he  great  lie  there  in  state, 

WinsCanity  littu  tow. 


THE 

MONITIONS  OF   THE   UNSEEN 


THE  MONITIONS  OF  THE  UNSEEN. 

Tetrrk  are  who  give  tliemselves  to  wark  for  men, — 

To  raise  the  lost,  to  pather  orphaned  babes 

And  teach  them,  pityinpj  of  their  mean  estate, 

To  feel  for  misery,  and  to  look  on  crime 

With  ruth,  till  they  forjret  that  they  themselves 

Are  of  the  race,  themselves  among  the  crowd 

Under  the  sentence  and  outside  the  gate, 

And  of  the  family  and  in  the  doom. 

Cold  is  the  world  ;  they  feel  how  cold  it  is. 

And  wish  that  they  coulO  warm  it.     Hard  is  life 

For  some.     They  would  that  they  could  soften  it  J 

And,  in  the  doing  of  their  work,  they  sigh 

As  if  it  was  their  choice  and  not  their  lot ; 

And,  in  the  raising  of  their  prayer  to  God, 

They  crava  His  kindness  for  the  world  He  made, 

Till  they,  at  last,  forget  that  Ue,  not  they, 

Is  the  true  lover  of  man. 


Now,  in  an  ancient  town,  that  had  sunk  low, — 
Trade  having  drifted  from  it,  while  there  stayed 
Too  many,  that  it  erst  had  fed,  behind, — 
There  walked  a  curate  once,  at  early  day. 

It  was  the  summer-time  ;  but  summer  air 
Came  never,  in  its  sweetness,  down  that  dark 
And  crowded  alley, — never  reached  the  door 
Whereat  he  stopped, — the  sordid,  shattered  door* 

WIS) 


41  &         THE  MONITIONS  OF  THE  UNSEEN. 

He  paused,  and,  looking  right  and  left,  beheld 
Dirt  and  decay,  the  lowering  tenements 
That  leaned  toward  each  other  ;  broken  panes 
Bulging  with  rags,  and  grim  with  old  neglect; 
And  reeking  hills  of  formless  refuse,  heaped 
To  fade  and  fester  in  a  stagnant  air. 
But  he  thought  nothing  of  it :  he  had  learned 
To  take  all  wretchedness  for  granted, — he, 
Reared  in  a  stainless  home,  and  radiant  yet 
With  the  clear  hues  of  healthful  English  youth, 
Had  learned  to  kneel  by  beds  forlorn,  and  stoop 
Under  foul  lintels.     He  could  touch,  with  hand 
Unshrinking,  fevered  fingers  ;  he  could  hear 
The  language  of  the  lost,  in  liuunt  and  den, — 
So  dismal,  that  the  coldest  passer-by 
Must  needs  be  sorry  for  them,  and,  albeit, 
They  cursed,  would  dare  to  speak  no  harder  words 
Than  these,—"  God  help  them  I  " 

Ay  I  a  learned  nias 
The  curate  in  all  woes  that  plague  mankind, — 
Too  learned,  for  he  was  but  young.     His  heart 
Had  yearned  till  it  was  overstrained,  and  now 
He — plunged  into  a  narrow  slough  unblest, 
Had  struggled  with  its  deadly  waters,  till 
His  own  head  had  gone  under,  and  he  took 
Small  joy  in  work  he  could  not  look  to  aid 
Its  cleansing 

Yet,  by  one  right  tender  tie, 
Hope  held  him  yet.     The  fathers  coarse  and  dull, 
Vile  mothers  hard,  and  boys  and  girls  profane, 
His    soul    drew    back    from.      He    had   worked    foT 

them, — 
Work  without  joy  :  but  in  his  heart  of  hearts, 
He  loved  the  little  children  ;  and,  whene'er 
He  heard  tlicir  prattle  innocent,  and  heard 
Their  touder  voices  lisping  sacred  words 


THE  MONITIONS  OF  THE  UNSEEN.        4^7 


That  he  had  taught  them,— in  the  clearJy  calm 
Of  decent  school,  hy  decent;  matron  held,^ 
Then  would  he  say,  "  I  shall  have  pleasure  yet, 
In  these." 

But  now,  when  he  pushed  back  that  door, 
And  mounted  up  a  flight  of  ruined  stairs. 
Fie  said  not  that.     He  said,  "  Oh  !  once  I  thought 
The  little  children  would  make  bright  for  me 
The  crown  they  wear  who  have  won  many  souls 
For  righteousness  ;  but  oh,  this  evil  place  I 
liard  lines  it  gives  them,  cold  and  dirt  abhorred, — 
Hunger  and  nakedness,  in  lieu  of  love. 
And  blows  instead  of  care. 

And  so  they  die, 
The  little  children  that  I  love, — they  die, — 
They  turn  their  wistful  faces  to  the  wall. 
And  slip  away  to  God." 

With  that,  his  hand 
He  laid  upon  a  latch  and  lifted  it. 
Looked  in  full  quietly,  and  entered  straight. 

What  saw  he  there  ?     He  saw  a  three-years  child, 

That  lay  a-dying  on  a  wisp  of  straw 

Swept  up  into  a  corner.     O'er  its  brow 

The  damps  of  death  were  gathering  :  all  alone, 

Uncared  for,  save  that  by  its  side  was  set 

A  cup,  it  wait(jd.     And  the  eyes  had  ceased 

To  look  on  things  at  hand.     He  thought  they  gazod 

In  wistful  wonder,  or  some  faint  surmise 

Of  coming  change, — as  though  they  saw  the  gate 

Of  that  fair  land  that  seems  to  most  of  us 

Very  far  off. 

When  he  beheld  the  look, 
He  said,  "I  knew,  I  knew  how  this  would  be  I 
Another  1     Ay,  and  but  for  drunken  blows 

27 


4l8         THE  MONITIONS  OF  THE  UNSEEN. 

And  dull  forgetfulness  of  iniant  need, 
This  little  one  had  lived."     And  thereupon 
The  misery  of  it  wrought  upon  him  so, 
That,  unaware,  he  wept.     O  I  then  it  was 
That,  in  the  bending  of  his  manly  head, 
It  came  between  the  child  and  that  whereon 
He  gazed,  and,  when  the  curate  glanced  again, 
Those  dying  eyes,  drawn  back  to  earth  once  more. 
Looked  up  into  his  own,  and  smiled. 

He  drew 
More  near,  and  kneeled  beside  the  small  frail  thing, 
Because  the  lips  were  moving  ;  and  it  raised 
Its  baby  hand,  and  stroked  away  his  tears, 
And  whispered,  "Master I  master!"  and  so  died. 

Now,  in  that  town  there  was  an  ancient  church, 
A  minster  of  old  days  which  these  had  turned 
To  parish  uses  :  there  the  curate  served. 
It  stood  within  a  quiet  swarded  Close, 
Sunny  and  still,  and,  though  it  was  not  far 
From  those  dark  courts  where  poor  humanity 
Struggled  and  swarmed,  it  seemed  to  wear  its  own 
Still  atmosphere  about  it,  and  to  hold 
That  old-world  calm  Avithin  its  precincts  pure 
And  that  grave  rest  which  modern  life  foregoes. 

When  the  sad  curate,  rising  from  his  knees. 
Looked  from  the  dead  to  heaven, — as,  unaware, 
Men  do  when  they  would  track  departed  life, — 
He  heard  tlie  deep  tone  of  the  minster-bell 
Sounding  for  service,  and  he  turned  away 
So  heavy  at  heart,  tliat,  when  he  loft  behind 
That  dismal  habitation,  and  came  oiit 
In  the  clear  sunshine  of  the  minster-yard, 
He  never  marked  it.     ITj)  \\\^-  aisle  ho  moved. 
With  his  own  gloom  about  him  ;  then  came  forth, 


THE  MONITIONS  OF  TTIR  UNSEEN.        4^9 

And  read  before  the  folk  grand  words  and  calm, — 
Words  full  of  hope  ;  but  into  his  dull  heart 
Hope  came  not.     As  one  talketh  in  a  dream, 
And  doth  not  mark  the  sense  of  his  own  words. 
He  read  \  and,  as  one  walketh  in  a  dream, 
He  after  walked  toward  the  vestment-room, 
And  never  marked  the  way  he  went  by, — no, 
Jsor  the  gray  verger  that  before  him  stood. 
The  great  church-keys  depending  from  his  hand, 
Ready  to  follow  him  out  and  lock  the  door. 

At  length,  aroused  to  present  things,  but  not 
Gontent  to  break  the  sequence  of  his  thought, 
Nor  ready  for  the  working  day  that  held 
Its  busy  course  without,  he  said,  "  Good  friend, 
Leave  me  the  keys  :  I  would  remain  awhile." 
And,  when  the  verger  gave,  he  moved  with  him 
Toward  the  door  distraught,  then  shut  him  out, 
And  locked  himselt  within  the  churcli  alone. 
The  minster-church  was  like  a  great  brown  cavo, 
Fluted  and  fine  Avith  pillcrs,  and  all  dim 
With  glorious  gloom  \  but,  as  the  curate  turned, 
Suddenly  shone  the  sun, — and  roof  and  walls, 
Also  the  clustering  shafts  from  end  to  end. 
Were  thickly  sown  all  over,  as  it  were. 
With  seedling  rainbows.     And  it  went  and  camo 
And  went,  that  sunny  beam,  and  drifted  up 
Ethereal  bloom  to  flush  the  open  wings 
And  carven  cheeks  of  dimpled  cherubim. 
And  dropped  upon  the  curate  as  he  passed, 
And  covered  his  white  raiment  and  his  hair. 

Then  did  look  down  upon  him  from  their  place, 
High  in  the  upper  lights,  grave  mitred  priests, 
And  grand  old  monarchs  in  their  flowered  gowniS 
And  cajies  of  miniver  ;  and  therewithal 
(A  veiling  cloud  gone  by)  the  naked  sun 


420         THE  MONITIONS  OF  THE  UNSEEN. 


Smote  with  his  burning  splendor  all  the  pile, 

And  in  there  rushed,  through  half-translucent  panes, 

A  sombre  glory  as  of  rusted  gold, 

Deep  ruby  stains,  and  tender  blue  and  green, 

That  made  the  floor  a  beauty  and  delight. 

Strewed  as  with  phantom  blossoms,  sweet  enough 

To  have  been  wafted  there  the  day  they  dropt 

On  the-  flower-beds  in  heaven. 

The  curate  passed 
Adown  the  long  south  aisle,  and  did  not  think 
Upon  this  beauty,  nor  that  he  himself — 
Excellent  in  the  strength  of  youth,  and  fair 
With  all  the  majesty  that  noble  work 
And  stainless  manners  give — did  add  his  part 
To  make  it  fairer. 

In  among  the  knights 
That  lay  with  hands  uplifted,  by  the  lute 
And  palm  of  many  a  saint, — 'neath  capitals 
Whereon  our  fathers  had  been  bold  to  carve 
With  earthly  tools  their  ancient  childlike  dream 
Concerning  heavenly  fruit  and  living  bowers, 
And  glad  full-throated  birds  that  sing  up  there 
Among  the  branches  of  the  tree  of  life, — 
Through  all  the  ordered  forest  of  the  shafts, 
Shooting  on  high  to  enter  into  light. 
That  swam  aloft, — he  took  his  silent  way, 
And  in  the  southern  transept  sat  him  down, 
Covered  his  face,  and  thought. 

ITe  said,  "  No  pain) 
tTo  passion,  and  no  aching,  heart  o'  mine. 
Doth  stir  within  thee.     Oh  1  I  would  there  did  : 
Thou  art  so  dull,  so  tired.     I  have  lost 
I  know  not  what.     I  see  the  heavens  as  lead  : 
They  tend  nc  whither.     Ah  1  the  world  is  bared 


THE  MONITIONS  OF  THE  UNSEEN.  421 

Of  her  enchantment  now  :  she  is  but  earth 

And  water.     And,  though  much  hath  passed  away, 

There  may  be  more  to  go.     I  may  forget 

The  joy  and  fear  that  have  been  :  there  may  live 

No  more  forme  the  fervency  of  hope 

Nor  the  arrest  of  wonder. 

"  Once  I  said, 
'Content  will  wait  on  work,  though  work  appear 
Unfruitful.'     Now  I  say,  *  Where  is  the  good  ? 
What  is  the  good  ?  '     A  lamp  when  it  is  lit 
Must  needs  give  light ;  but  I  am  like  a  man 
Holding  his  lamp  in  some  deserted  place 
Where  no  foot  passe th.     Must  I  trim  my  lamp, 
And  ever  painfully  toil  to  keep  it  bright, 
When  use  for  it  is  none  ?     I  must ;  I  will. 
Though  God  withhold  my  wages,  I  must  work. 
And  watch  the  bringing  of  my  work  to  naught, — 
Weed  in  the  vineyard  through  the  heat  o'  the  day, 
And,  overtasked,  behold  the  weedy  place 
Grow  ranker  yet  in  spite  of  me. 

"  Oh !  yet 
My  meditated  words  are  trodden  down 
Like  a  little  wayside  grass.     Castaway  she]ls, 
Lifted  and  tossed  aside  by  a  plunging  wave, 
Have  no  more  force  against  it  than  have  I 
Against  the  sweeping,  weltering  wave  of  life, 
That,  lifting  and  dislodging  me,  drives  on, 
And  notes  not  mine  endeavor." 

Afterward, 
He  added  more  words  like  to  these  ;  to  wit, 
That  it  was  hard  to  see  the  world  so  sad  : 
He  would  that  it  were  happier.     It  was  hard 
To  see  the  blameless  overborne  ;  and  hard 
To  know  that  God,  who  loves  the  world,  should  yet 
Let  it  lie  down  in  sorrow,  when  a  smile 


From  nim  would  make  it  laugh  and  sing, — a  word 

From  Him  transform  it  to  a  heaven.     He  said, 

Moreover,  "  When  will  this  be  done  ?     My  life 

Uath  not  yet  reached  the  noon,  and  I  am  tired  ; 

And  oh  1  it  may  be  that,  uncomforted 

By  foolish  hoije  of  doing  good  and  vain 

Conceit  of  being  useful,  I  may  live, 

And  it  may  be  my  duty  to  go  on 

Working  for  years  and  years,  for  years  and  yeai-s." 

But,  Avhile  the  words  were  uttered,  in  his  heart 

1  here  dawned  a  vague  alarm.     He  was  aware 

That  somewhat  touched  him,  and  he  lifted  up 

His  face.     "  I  am  alone,"  the  curate  said, — 

"  I  think  I  am  alone.     What  is  it,  then  ? 

I  am  ashamed  !     My  raiment  is  not  clean. 

My  lips, — I  am  afraid  they  are  not  clean. 

My  heart  is  darkened  and  unclean.     Ah  mo, 

To  be  a  man,  and  yet  to  tremble  so  1 

Strange,  strange  1 " 

And  there  was  sitting  at  his  feet— 
He  could  not  see  it  plainly — at  his  feet 
A  very  little  child.     And,  Avhile  the  blood 
Drave  to  his  heart,  he  set  his  eye  on  it, 
Gazing,  and,  lo  1  the  loveliness  from  heaven 
Took  clearer  form  and  color.     He  beheld 
The  strange,  wise  sweetness  of  a  dimpled  mouth, — 
The  deep  serene  of  eyes  at  home  with  bliss, 
And  perfect  in  possession.     So  it  spoke, 
"  My  master !  "  but  he  answered  not  a  word  ; 
And  it  went  on  :  "I  had  a  name,  a  name. 
He  knew  my  name  ;  but  here  they  can  forget." 
Tlie  curate  answered  :  "  Nay,  I  know  thee  well. 
1  love  thee.     Wherefore  art  thou  come  ?  "    It  said, 
"  They  sent  me  ;  "  and  he  faltered,  "Fold  thy  hand, 
O  most  dear  little  one !  for  on  it  gleams 
A  gem  that  is  so  bright  I  cannot  look 


THE  MONITIONS  OF  THE  UNSEEN.        4" 3 

Thereon."     It  said,  *'  When  1  did  leave  this  world, 
That  was  a  tear.     But  that  was  long  ago  ; 
For  I  have  lived  among  the  happy  folk, 
Vou  wot  of,  ages,  ages."     Then  said  he, 
"  Do  they  forget  us,  while  beneath  the  palms 
They  take  their  infinite  leisure  ?  "  And,  with  eyjs 
That  seemed  to  muse  upon  him,  looking  up 
In  peace  the  little  child  made  answer,  "Nay  ; " 
And  murmured,  in  the  language  that  he  loved-, 
"  IIow  is  it  that  his  hair  is  not  yet  white  ; 
For  I  and  all  the  others  have  been  long 
Waiting  for  liim  to  come." 

"And  was  it  long  ?  " 
The  curate  answered,  pondering.  "Time  being  done., 
Shall  life  indeed  expand,  and  give  the  sense. 
In  our  to-come,  of  infinite  extension  ?  " 
Then  said  the  child,  "  In  heaven  we  children  talk 
Of  the  great  matters,  and  our  lips  are  wise  ; 
But  here  I  can  but  talk  with  thee  in  words 
That  here  I  knew."    And  therewithal,  arisen, 
It  said,  "  I  pray  you  take  me  in  your  arms." 
Then,  being  afraid  but  willing,  so  he  did; 
And  partly  drew  about  the  radiant  child, 
For  better  covering  its  dread  purity, 
The  foldings  of  his  gown.     And  he  beheld 
Its  beauty,  and  the  tremulous  woven  light 
That  hung  upon  its  hair  ;  withal,  the  robe, 
'  Whiter  than  fuller  of  this  world  can  white,' 
That  clothed  its  immortality.     And  so 
The  trembling  came  again,  and  he  was  dumb> 
Ueponting  his  uncleanness  :  and  he  lift 
Uis  eyes,  and  all  the  holy  place  was  full 
Of  living  things  ;  and  some  were  faint  and  dim, 
As  if  they  bore  an  intermittent  life. 
Waxing  and  waning  ;   and  they  had  no  foriU; 
But  drifted  on  like  slowly  trailed  clouds, 


424        THE  MONITIONS  OF  THE  UNSEEN. 

Or  moving  spots  of  darkness,  with  an  eye 

Apiece,     And  some,  in  guise  of  evil  birds, 

Came  by  in  troops,  and  stretched  their  naked  necks. 

And  some  were  men-like,  but  their  heads  hung  down  j 

And  he  said,  "  O  my  God  1  let  me  find  grace 

Not  to  behold  their  faces,  for  I  know 

They  must  be  wicked  and  right  terrible," 

But  while  he  prayed,  lo  I  whispers  ;  and  there  moved 

Two  shadows  on  the  wall.     He  could  not  see 

The  forms  of  them  that  cast  them ;  he  could  see 

Only  the  shadows  as  of  two  that  sat 

Upon  the  floor,  where,  clad  in  women's  weeds, 

They  lisped  together.     And  he  shuddered  much : 

There  was  a  rustling  near  him,  and  he  feared 

Lest  they  should  touch  him,  and  he  feel  their  touch. 

"  It  is  not  great,"  quoth  one,  "  the  Avork  achieved. 

We  do,  and  we  delight  to  do,  our  best  : 

But  that  is  little  ;  for,  my  dear,"  quoth  she, 

"  This  tower  and  town  have  been  infested  long 

With  angels." — "  Ay,"  the  other  made  reply, 

"'  I  had  a  little  evil  one,  of  late, 

That  I  picked  up  as  it  was  crawling  out 

O'  the  pit,  and  took  and  cherished  in  my  breast. 

It  would  divine  for  me,  and  oft  would  moan, 

'  Pray  thee,  no  churches,'  and  it  spake  of  this. 

But  I  was  harried  once, — thou  know'st  by  whom,— 

And  fled  in  here  ;  and  when  he  followed  me, 

1  crouching  by  this  pillar,  he  let  down 

Ills  hand, — being  all  too  proud  to  send  his  eyes 

Jn  its  wake, — and,  plucking  forth  my  tender  imp, 

Flung  it  behind  him.     It  went  yelping  forth  ; 

And,  as  for  me,  I  never  saw  it  more. 

Much  is  against  us, — very  much  :  the  times 

Are  hard."     She  paused  :  her  fellow  took  thtt-^ord, 

iPlaining  on  such  as  preach  and  them  that  plead. 


THE  MONTTTONS  OF  THE  UNSEEN.        42.'; 


"Even  such  as  liaunt  the  yawning  mouths  of  hell," 
Quoth  she,  "  and  pluck  them  back  that  run  thereto.' 
Then,  like  a  sudden  blow,  there  fell  on  him 
The  utterance  of  his  name.     "  There  is  no  soul 
That  I  loathe  more,  and  oft-ener  curse.     Woe's  me. 
That  cursing  should  be  vain  I     Ay,  he  will  go 
Gather  the  sucking  children,  that  are  yet 
Too  young  for  us,  and  watch  and  shelter  them 
Till  the  strong  Angels — pitiless  and  stern. 
But  to  them  loving  ever — sweep  them  in, 
By  armsful,  to  the  unapproachable  fold. 

*'  We  strew  his  path  with  gold  :  it  will  not  lie. 
*  Deal  softly  with  him,'  was  the  master's  word. 
We  brought  him  all  delights  :  his  angel  came 
And  stood  between  them  and  his  eyes.     They  spend 
Much  pains  upon  him, — keep  him  pooi-  and  low 
And  unbeloved  ;  and  thus  he  gives  his  mind 
To  fill  the  fateful,  the  impregnable 
Child-fold,  and  sow  on  earth  the  seed  of  stars. 

"  Oh  !  hard  is  serving  against  love, — the  love 
Of  the  unspeakable  ;  for  if  we  soil 
The  souls  He  openeth  out  a  washing-place  ; 
And  if  we  grudge,  and  snatch  away  the  broad, 
Then  will  He  save  by  poverty,  and  gain 
By  early  giving  up  of  blameless  life  ; 
And  if  we  shed  out  gold,  He  even  will  save 
In  spite  of  gold, — of  twice  refined  gold." 

With  that  the  curate  set  his  daunted  eyes 
To  look  upon  the  shadows  of  the  fiends. 
He  was  made  sure  they  could  not  see  the  cliild 
That  nestled  in  his  arms  ;  he  also  knew 
They  were  unconscious  that  his  mortal  ears 
Had  new  intelligence,  which  gave  their  speech 
Possible  entrance  through  his  garb  of  clay. 


426        THE  MONITIONS  OF  THE  UNSEEN. 

He  was  afraid,  yet  awful  gladness  reached 
His  soul  :  the  testimony  of  the  lost 
Upbraided  him  ;  but  wliile  he  trembled  yet, 
The  heavenly  child  had  lifted  up  its  head 
And  left  his  arms,  and  on  the  marble  floor 
Stood  beckoning. 

And,  its  touch  withdrawn,  the  place 
Was  silent,  empty  j  all  that  swarming  tribe 
Of  evil  ones  concealed  behind  the  veil. 
And  shut  into  their  separate  world,  were  closed 
From  his  observance.     He  arose,  and  paced 
After  the  little  child,— as  half  in  fear 
That  it  would  leave  him,— till  they  reached  a  door ; 
And  then  said  he, — but  much  distraught  he  spoke, 
Laying  bis  hand  across  the  lock, — "  This  door 
Shuts  in  the  stairs  whereby  men  mount  the  tower. 
Wouldst  thou  go  up,  and  so  withdraw  to  heaven  ?  " 
It  answered,  "  I  will  mount  them."     Then  said  ho, 
"  And  I  will  follow."—"  So  thou  shalt  do  well," 
The  radiant  thing  replied,  and  it  went  up, 
And  he,  amazed,  went  after  ;  for  the  stairs, 
Otherwhile  dark,  were  lightened  by  the  ray8 
Shed  out  of  raiment  woven  in  high  heaven, 
And  hair  whereon  had  smiled  the  light  of  God. 

With  that,  they,  pacing  on,  came  out  at  last 

Into  a  dim,  weird  place, — a  chamber  formed 

Betwixt  the  roofs  :  for  you  shall  know  that  all 

The  vaulting  of  the  nave,  fretted  and  fine. 

Was  covered  with  the  dust  of  ages,  laid 

Thick  with  those  chips  of  stone  which  they  had  left 

Who  wrought  it ;  but  a  high-pitched  roof  was  reared 

Above  it,  and  the  western  gable  pierced 

With   three   long   narrow    lights.      Great   tie-beams 

loomed 
Across,  and  many  daws  frequented  there, 


THE  MONITIONS  OF  THE  UNSEEN.        4?7 


The  starling  and  the  sparrow  littered  it 
With  straw,  and  peeped  from  many  a  shady  nook; 
And  there  was  lifting  up  of  wings,  and  there 
Was  hasty  exit  when  the  curate  came. 
But  sitting  on  a  bea-m  and  moving  not 
For  him,  he  saw  two  fair  gray  turtle-doves 
Bowing  their  lioads,  and  cooing  ;  and  the  child 
Put  forth  a  hand  to  touch  his  own,  but  straight 
He,  startled,  drew  it  back,  because,  forsooth, 
A  stirring  fancy  smote  him,  and  he  thought 
That  language  trembled  on  their  innocent  tongues, 
And  floated  forth  in  speech  that  man  could  hear. 
Then  said  the  child,  "  Yet  touch,  my  master  dear." 
And  he  let  down  his  hand,  and  touched  again  ; 
And  so  it  was.     "  But  if  they  had  their  way," 
One  turtle  cooedf  "  how  should  this  world  go  on  ?  " 


Then  he  looked  well  upon  them  as  he  stood 

Upright  before  them.     They  Avere  feathered  doves, 

And  sitting  closa  together  ;  and  their  eyes 

Were  rounded  ivith  the  rim  that  niarks  their  kind. 

Their  tender  crimson  feet  did  pat  the  beam, — 

No  phantoms  they  ;  and  soon  the  fellow-dove 

Made  answer,  "  Nay,  they  count  themselves  so  wise, 

There  is  no  task  they  shall  be  set  to  do 

But  they  will  ask  God  why.     What  mean  they  so  ? 

The  glory  is  not  in  the  task,  but  in 

The  doing  it  for  Him.     What  should  he  think. 

Brother,  this  man  that  must,  forsooth,  be  sot 

Such  noble  work,  and  suffered  to  behold 

Its  fruit,  if  he  knew  more  of  us  and  ours  ?  " 

With  that  the  other  leaned,  as  if  attent : 

"  I  am  not  perfect,  brother,  in  his  thought." 

The  mystic  bird  rephed,  "  Brother,  he  saith, 

'  But  it  is  naught :  the  work  is  over-hard.' 

Whose  fault  is  that  ?     God  sets  not  overwork. 


428         THE  MONITIONS  OF  THE  UNSEEN. 

He  saith  the  world  is  sorrowful,  and  he 

Is  therefore  sorrowful.     He  cannot  set 

The  crooked  straight ; — but  who  demands  of  him, 

O  brother,  that  he  should  ?    What  1   thinks  he,  then, 

His  work  is  God's  advantage,  and  his  will 

More  bent  to  aid  the  world  than  its  dread  Lord's. 

Nay,  yet  there  live  amongst  us  legions  fair, 

Millions  on  millions,  who  could  do  right  well 

What  he  must  fail  in  ;  and  'twas  whispered  mc. 

That  chiefly  for  himself  the  task  is  given, — 

His  little  daily  task."     With  that  he  paused. 

Then  said  the  other,  preening  its  fair  wing, 
"  Men  have  discovered  all  God's  islands  now, 
And  given  them  names  ;  whereof  they  are  as  prondi 
And  deem  themselves  as  great,  as  if  their  hands 
Had  made  them.     Strange  is  man,  and  strango  liifl 

pride. 
Now,  as  for  us,  it  matters  not  to  learn 
What  and  from  whence  we  be  :    How  should  we  tell  ? 
Our  Avorld  is  undiscovered  in  these  skies. 
Our  names  not  whispered.     Yet,  for  us  and  ours, 
What  joy  it  is, — permission  to  come  down. 
Not  souls,  as  he,  to  the  bosom  of  their  God, 
To  guide,  but  to  their  goal  the  winged  fowls, 
His  lovely  lower-fashioned  lives  to  help 
To  take  their  forms  by  legions,  fly,  and  draw 
With  us  the  sweet,  obedient,  flocking  things 
That  ever  hear  our  message  reverently, 
And  follow   us  far.      How  should  they  know  t/uur 

way. 
Forsooth,  alone  ?    Men  say  they  fly  alone  ; 
Yet  some  have  set  on  record,  and  averred. 
That  they,  among  the  flocks,  had  duly  marked 
A  leader." 

Then  his  fellow  niade  reply  : 
*'  They  might  divine  the  Maker's  heart.     Come  forth, 


Pair  dovft,  to  find  the  flocks,  and  ^lide  their  wings, 
For  Him  that  loveth  them." 

With  that,  the  child 
Withdrew  his  hand,  and  all  their  speech  was  done. 
He  moved  toward  them,  but  they  fluttered  forth 
And  fled  into  the  sunshine. 

"  I  would  fain," 
Said  he,  "  have   heard  some  more.     And  wilt  thou 

go?" 
He  added  to  the  child,  for  this  had  turned. 
"  Ay,"  quoth  he,  gently,  '*  to  the  beggar's  place  ; 
For  I  would  see  the  beggar  in  the  porch." 


So  they  went  down  together  to  the  door. 

Which,  when  the  curate  opened,  lo  !  without 

The  beggar  sat ;  and  he  saluted  him  : 

"  Good  morrow,   master."      "  Wherefore    art    thou 

here  ?" 
The  curate  asked  :  "  it  is  not  service-time, 
And  none  will  enter  now  to  give  thee  alms." 
Then  said  the  beggar,  "  I  have  hope  at  heart 
That  I  shall  go  to  my  poor  house  no  more." 
"  Art  thou  so  sick  that  thou  dost  think  to  die  ?" 
The  curate  said.     With  that  the  beggar  laughed, 
And  under  his  dim  eyelids  gathered  tears, 
And  he  was  all  a-tremble  with  a  strange 
And  moving  exaltation.     "  Ay,"  quoth  he. 
And  set  his  face  toward  high  heaven  :  "I  think 
The  blessing  that  I  wait  on  must  be  near." 
Then  said  the  curate,  "  God  be  good  to  thee." 
And,  straight,  the  little  child  put  fortli  his  hand, 
And  touched  him.     *'  Master,  master.,  hush  J 
You  should  not,  master,  speak  so  carelessly 
In  this  great  pret*euce." 


<J30        THE  MONITIONS  OF  THE  UNSEEN. 

But  the  touch  so  wrought. 
That,  lo  !  the  dazzled  curate  staggered  back, 
For  dread  effulgence  from  the  beggar's  eyes 
Smote  him,  and  from  the  crippled  limbs  shot  forth 
Terrible  lights,  as  pure  long  blades  of  fire. 
*'  Withdraw  thy  touch  I    withdraw  thy  touch  !  "    he 

cried, 
*'  Or  else  shall  I  be  blinded."     Then  the  child 
Stood  back  from  him  ;  and  he  sat  down  apart, 
Recovering  of  his  manhood  :  and  he  heard 
The  beggar  and  the  child  discourse  of  things 
Dreadful  for  glory,  till  his  spirits  came 
Anew  5  and,  when  the  beggar  looked  on  him, 
He  said,  "If  I  offend  not,  pray  you  tell 
Who  and  what  are  you, — I  behold  a  face 
Marred  with  old  age,  sickness,  and  poverty, — 
A  cripple  Avith  a  staff,  who  long  hath  sat 
Begging,  and  ofttimes  moaning,  in  the  porch, 
For  pain  and  for  the  wind's  inclemency. 
What  are  you  ?  "     Then  the  beggar  made  reply. 
"  I  was  a  delegate,  a  living  power  ; 
My  work  was  bliss,  for  seeds  were  in  my  hand 
To  plant  a  new-made  world.     O  happy  work  ! 
It  grew  and  blossomed  ;  but  my  dwelling-place 
Was  far  remote  from  heaven.     I  have  not  seen  \ 
I  knew  no  wish  to  enter  there.     But,  lo  I 
There  went  forth  rumors,  running  out  like  rays. 
How  some,  that  were  of  jjower  like  even  to  mine. 
Had  made  request  to  come  and  find  a  place 
Within  its  Avails.     And  these  were  satisfied 
With  proTnises,  and  sent  to  this  far  world 
To  take  the  Aveeds  of  your  mortality, 
And  minister,  and  suffer  grief  and  pain, 
And  die  like  men.     Then  Avere  they  gathered  in. 
They  Raw  a  face,  and  were  accounted  kin 
To  Whom  thou  kuovvest,  for  lie  is  kiu  to  men. 


THE  MONITIONS  OF  THE  UNSEEN.        431 

*'  Then  I  did  wait ;  and  oft,  at  work,  I  sang, 

'  To  minister  !  oli,  joy,  to  minister  ! ' 

And,  it  being  known,  a  message  came  to  me  : 

'  Whether  is  best,  thou  forest-planter  wise. 

To  minister  to  others,  or  that  they 

Shfiuld  minister  to  thee  ?  '     Then,  on  my  face 

Low  lying,  I  made  answer :  '  Tt  is  best. 

Most  nigh,  to  minister ; '  and  thus  came  back 

The  answer, — '  Choose  not  for  thyself  the  best : 

Go  down,  and,  lo  !  my  poor  shall  minister. 

Out  of  their  poverty,  to  thee  ;  shall  learn 

Compassion  by  thy  frailty  ;  and  shall  oft 

Turn  back,  when  speeding  home  from  work,  to  help 

Thee,  weak  and  crippled,  home.     My  little  ones, 

Thou  shalt  importune  for  their  slender  mite, 

And  pray,  and  move  them  that  they  give  it  up 

For  love  of  Me.'  " 

The  curate  answered  him, 
"  Art  thou  content,  O  great  one  from  afar  I 
If  I  may  ask,  and  not  offend  ?  "     He  said, 
"  I  am.     Behold  !  I  stand  not  all  alone. 
That  I  should  think  to  do  a  perfect  work. 
I  may  not  wish  to  give  ;  for  I  have  heard 
'Tis  best  for  me  that  I  receive.     For  me, 
God  is  the  only  giver,  and  His  gift 
Is  one."      With  that,  the  little  child  sighed  out, 
"  O  master !  master  I     I  am  out  of  heavan 
Sinoe  noonday,  and  I  hear  them  calling  me, 
If  you  be  ready,  great  one,  let  us  go  : — 
Hark  I  harkl  they  call." 

Then  did  the  beggar  lift 
His  face  to  heaven,  and  utter  forth  a  cry 
As  of  the  pangs  of  death,  and  every  tree 
Moved  as  if  shaken  by  a  sudden  wind. 
He  cried  again,  and  there  came  forth  a  hand 


432         THE  MONTTTONS  OF  THE  UNSEEN. 


From  some  invisible  form,  whieli,  being  laid 
A  little  moment  on  the  curate's  eyes, 
It  dazzled  him  with  light  that  brake  from  it. 
So  that  he  saw  no  more. 

"What  shall  I  do?" 
The  curate  murmured,  when  he  came  again 
To  himself  and  looked  about  him.    "  This  is  strange  \ 
My  thoughts  are  all  astray  ;  and  yet,  methinks, 
•A  weight  is  taken  from  my  heart.     Lo  1  lo  ! 
There  lieth  at  my  feet,  frail,  white,  and  dead, 
The  sometime  beggar.     He  is  happy  now. 
Tliere  was  a  child  ;  but  he  is  gone,  and  he 
Is  also  happy.     I  am  glad  to  think 
I  am  not  bound  to  make  the  wrong  go  right; 
But  only  to  discover,  and  to  do. 
With  cheerful  heart,  the  work  that  God  appoints." 

With  that,  he  did  compost,  with  reverent  care, 
The  dead;  continuing,  "  I  will  trust  in  Ilim, 
That  He  can  hold  His  own  ;  and  I  will  take 
Eis  will,  above  the  work  He  sendeth  me, 
To  be  my  chiefest  good." 

Then  went  he  forth 
"  I  shall  die  early,"  thinking  :  "  I  am  warned. 
By  this  fair  vision,  that  1  have  not  long 
To  live."     Yet  he  lived  on  to  good  old  age  ; — 
Ay,  he  lives  yet,  and  he  is  working  still. 


It  may  be  there  are  many  in  like  case  ; 
They  give  themselves,  and  are  in  misery 
Because  the  gift  is  small,  and  doth  not  make 
The  world  by  so  much  better  as  they  fain 
Would  have  it.     'Tis  a  fault  ;  but,  as  for  ns, 
Let  us  not  blame  them.     Maybe,  'tis  a  fault 
More  kindly  looked  ou  by  The  Majesty 


A  BIRTHDAY  WALK.  433 


Than  our  best  virtues  are.  Why,  what  are  wo  \ 
What  have  we  given,  and  what  have  we  desired 
To  give,  the  world  ? 

There  must  be  something  wrong. 
Look  to  \X :  let  us  mend  our  ways.     Farewell. 


A  BIRTHDAY  WALK. 
(written  for  a  friend's  birthday.) 


"  The  days  of  our  life  are  threescore  years  iind  ten." 


A  BIRTHDAY  : — and  now  a  day  that  rose 
With  much  of  hope,  with  meaning  rife — 

A  thoughtful  day  from  dawn  to  close  r 
The  middle  day  of  human  life. 

In  sloping  fields  on  narrow  plains, 

The  sheep  were  feeding  on  their  knees, 

As  we  went  through  the  winding  lanes, 
Strewed  with  red  buds  of  alder-trees. 

So  warm  the  day — its  influence  lent 
To  flagging  thoughts  a  stronger  wing  ; 

So  utterly  was  winter  spent. 

So  sudden  was  the  birth  of  spring. 

* 

Wild  crocus  flowers  in  copse  and  hedge—* 
In  sunlight,  clustering  thick  below, 

Sighed  for  the  firwood's  shaded  ledge, 
Where  sparkled  yet  a  line  of  snow. 

28 


434  -4  BIRTHDAY  WALFT. 

And  crowded  snowdrops  faintly  hung 
Their  fair  heads  lower  for  the  heat, 

While  in  still  air  all  branches  flung 
Their  shadowy  doubles  at  our  feet. 

And  through  the  hedge  the  sunbeams  crept, 
Dropped  through  the  maple  and  the  birch; 

And  lost  in  airy  distance  slept 
On  the  broad  tower  of  Tamwortb  Church. 

Then,  lingering  on  the  downward  way, 

A  little  space  we  resting  stood, 
To  watch  the  golden  haze  that  lay 

Adown  that  river  by  the  wood. 

A  distance  vague,  the  bloom  of  sleep 
The  constant  sun  had  lent  the  scene, 

A  veiling  charm  on  dingles  deep 
Lay  soft  those  pastoral  hills  between. 

There  are  some  days  that  die  not  out. 

Nor  alter  by  reflection's  power. 
Whose  converse  calm,  whose  words  devout. 

Forever  rest,  the  spirit's  dower. 

And  they  are  days  when  drops  a  veil — 

A  mist  upon  the  distance  past ; 
And  while  we  say  to  peace — "  All  hail !  " 

We  hope  that  always  it  shall  last. 

Times  when  the  troubles  of  the  heart 

Are  hushed — as  winds  were  hushed  that  day- 

And  budding  hopes  begin  to  start, 

Like  those  green  hedgerows  on  our  way  : 

When  all  within  and  all  around, 
Like   hues  on  that  sweet  landscape  blend. 

And  Nature's  hand  has  made  to  sound 
The  heartstrings  that  her  touch  attend: 


In  sloping  fields  on  narrow  plains, 
j     The  sheep  were  feeding  on  their  kneesi 
As  we  went  through  the  winding  lanes. 
Strewed  with  red  buds  of  alder  trees. 


NOT  IN  VAIN  I  WAITED.  435 


When  there  are  rays  within,  like  those 
That    streamed    through    maple    and    through 
birch, 

And  rested  in  such  calm  repose 

On  the  broad  tower  of  Tamworth  Churck. 


NOT  IN  VAIN  I  WAITED. 

She  was  but  a  child,  a  child, 

And  I  a  man  grown  ; 
Sweet  she  was,  and  fresh,  and  wild, 

And,  I  thought,  my  own. 

What  could  I  do  ?     The  long  grass  groweth, 

The  long  vpave  floweth  with  a  murmur  on  % 
The  why  and  the  wherefore  of  it  all  who  know- 

eth? 
Ere  I  thought  to  lose  her  she  was  grown — and 

gone. 

This  day  or  that  day  in  warm  spring  weather, 

The  lamb  that  was   tame  will  yearn  to   break    its 

tether. 
'■'■  But  if  the  world  wound  thee,"  I  said,  "  come  back 

to  me, 
Down   in   the   dell    wishing,  —  wishing,   wishing   for 
thee." 

The  dews  hang  on  the  white  may^ 

Like  a  ghost  it  stands. 
All  in  the  dusk  before  day 
That  folds  the  dim  lands : 
Dark  fell  the  skies  when  once  belated, 

Sad,  and  sorrow-fated,  I  missed  the  sun  ; 
But  wake,  heart,  and  sing,  for  not  in  vain  I  waited. 
O  clear,  O  solemn  dawning,  lo,  the  maid  is  won  \ 


436  -4  GLEANING  SONG- 

Sweet  dews,  dry  early  on  the  grrass  and  clover, 
Lest  the  bride  wet  her  feet  while  she  walks  over  ; 
Shine  to-day,  sunbeams,  and  make  all  fair  to  see  : 
Down  the  dell  she's  coming — coming,  coming  with 
ine„ 


A  GLEANING  SONG. 

**  Whither  away,  thou  little  careless  rover? 

(Kind  Roger's  true) 
Whither  away,  across  yon  bents  and  clover, 
Wet,  wet  with  dew  ?  " 
"  Roger  here,  Roger  there — 

Roger — O,  he  sighed, 
Yet  let  me  glean  among  the  wheat, 
Nor  sit  kind  Roger's  bride." 

"  What  wilt  thou  do  when  all  the  gleaning's  ended, 

What  wilt  thou  do  ? 
The  cold  will  come,  and  fog  and  frost-work  blended 
(Kind  Roger's  true)." 
''Sleet  and  rain,  cloud  and  storm, 

When  they  cease  to  frown 
I'll  bind  me  primrose  bunches  sweet, 
And  cry  them  up  the  town." 

"  What  if  at  last  thy  careless  heart  awaking 

This  day  thou  rue  ?  " 
•  I'll  cry  my  flowers,  and  think  for  all  its  breaking.. 
Kind  Roger's  true ; 
Roger  here,  Roger  there, 

O,  ray  true  loved  sigiied. 
Sigh  once,  once  more,  I'll  stay  my  foet 
And  rest  kind  Roger's  bride." 


FANCY.  437 


WITH  A  DIAMOND. 

I  While  Time  a  ^x'wa  old  lion  gnawing  lay, 

And  mumbled  with  its  teeth  yon  regal  tomb,j 
Like  some  immortal  tear  undimmed  for  aye, 
This  gem  was  dropped  among  the  dust  uf  doom. 

Dropped,  haply,  by  a  sad  forgotten  queen, 
A  tear  to  outlast  name,  and  fame,  and  tongue  : 

Her  other  tears,  and  ours,  all  tears  terrene, 
For  great  new  griefs  to  be  hereafter  sung. 

Take  it,- -a  goddess  might  have  wept  such  tears, 
Or  Dame  Electra  changed  into  a  star. 

That  waxed  so  dim  because  her  children's  years 
In  leaguered  Troy  were  bitter  through  long  war, 

Not  till  the  end  to  end  to  grow  dull  or  waste, — 
Ah,  what  a  little  while  the  light  we  share  I 

Hand  after  hand  shall  yet  with  this  be  graced. 
Signing  the  Will  that  leaves  it  to  an  heir. 


FANCY. 


0  FANCY,  if  thou  flyest,  come  back  anon, 

Thy  fluttering  wings  are  soft  as  love's  first  words 
And  fragrant  as  the  feathers  of  that  bird. 
Which  feeds  upon  the  budded  cinnamon. 

1  ask  thee  not  to  work,  or  sigh — play  on. 

From  naught  that  v/as  not,  was,  or  is,  deterred  ; 

The  flax    that  Old  Fate  spun    thy  flights    havo 
stirred. 
And  waved  memorial  grass  of  IMarathon 
Play,  but  be  gentle,  not  as  on  that  day 

i  saw  thee  running  down  the  rims  of  doom 


438  LOOKING  DOWN. 


With  stars  thou  hadst  been  steahng — while  they  lay 
Smothered  in  light  and  blue — clasped  to  thy  breast ; 

Bring  rather  to  me  in  the  firelit  room 
A  netted  halcyon  bird  to  sing  of  rest. 


COMPENSATION. 

One  launched  a  ship,  but  she  was  wrecked  at  sea  ,; 

He  built  a  bridge,  but  floods  have  borne  it  down  ; 
He  meant  much  good,  none  came  :  strange  destiny, 

His  corn  lies  sunk,  his  bridge  bears  none  to  town, 

Yet  good  he  had  not  meant  became  his  crown ; 
For  once  at  work,  when  even  as  nature  free. 

From  thought  of  good  he  was,  or  of  renown, 
God  took  the  work  for  good  and  let  good  be. 
So  wakened  with  a  trembling  after  sleep, 

Dread  Mona  Roa  yields  her  fateful  store  ; 
All  s'leaming  hot  the  scarlet  rivers  creep, 

And  fanned  of  great-leaved  palms  slip  to  the  shore:, 
Then  stolen  to  unplumbed  wastes  of  that  far  deep, 

Lay  the  foundations  for  one  island  more. 


LOOKING  DOWN. 

Mountains  of  sorrow,  I  have  heard  your  moans, 
And  the  moving  of  your  pines  ;  but  we  sit  high 
On  your  green  shoulders,  nearer  stoops  the  sky, 

And  pure  airs  visit  us  from  all  the  zones. 
Sweet  world  beneath,  too  happy  far  to  sigh, 

Dost  thou  look  thus  beheld  from  heavenly  thrones? 

No  ;  not  for  all  the  love  that  counts  thy  stones, 
While  sleepy  with  great  light  the  valleys  lie. 

Strange,  rapturous  peace  I  its  sunshine  doth  enfold 
My  heart;   1  have  escaped  to  the  days  diviue, 


MARRIED  LOVERS.  439 

It  seemeth  as  bygone  ages  back  bad  rolled, 
And  all  the  eldest  past  was  now,  was  mine  ; 

Nay,  even  as  if  Melcliizedec  of  old 
Might  here  come  forth  to  us  with  bread  and  wine. 


MARRIED  LOVERS. 

Comb  away,  the  clouds  are  high, 

Put  the  flashing  needles  by. 

Many  days  are  not  to  spare. 

Or  to  waste,  my  fairest  fair  ! 

All  is  ready.     Come  to-day, 

For  the  nightingale  her  lay, 

When  she  findeth  that  the  whole 

Of  her  love,  and  all  her  soul, 

Cannot  forth  of  her  sweet  throat. 

Sobs  the  while  she  draws  her  breath, 

And  the  bravery  of  her  note 

In  a  few  days  altereth. 

C^me,  ere  she  despond,  and  see 

In  a  silent  ecstasy 

Chestnuts  heave  for  hours  and  hours 

All  the  glory  of  their  flowers 

To  the  melting  blue  above, 

That  broods  over  them  like  love. 

Leave  the  garden  walls,  where  blow 

Apple-blossoms  pink,  and  low 

Ordered  beds  of  tulips  fine. 

Seek  the  blossoms  made  divine 

With  a  scent  that  is  their  soul. 

These  are  soulless.     Bring  the  white 

Of  thy  gown  to  bathe  in  light 

Walls  for  narrow  hearts.     The  whole 

Earth  is  found,  and  air  and  sea, 

]Sot  too  wide  for  thee  and  me. 


440  MARRIED  LOVERS. 


Not  too  wide,  and  yet  thy  face 

Gives  the  meaning  of  all  space, 

And  thine  eyes,  with  starbeanis  fraught  • 

Hold  the  measure  of  all  thought ; 

For  of  them  my  soul  besought, 

And  was  shown  a  glimpse  of  thine — 

A  veiled  vestal,  with  divine 

Solace,  in  sweet  love's  despair, 

For  that  life  is  brief  as  fair. 

Who  hath  most,  he  yearneth  most, 

Sure,  as  seldom  heretofore, 

Somewhere  of  the  gracious  more. 

Deepest  joy  the  least  shall  boast. 

Asking  with  new-opened  eyes 

The  remainder  ;  that  which  lies 

O,  so  fair !  but  not  all  conned — 

O,  so  near  I  and  yet  beyond. 

Come,  and  in  the  woodland  sit. 
Seem  a  wonted  part  of  it. 
Then,  while  moves  the  delicate  air. 
And  the  glories  of  thy  hair 
Little  flickering  sun-rays  strike, 
Let  me  see  what  thou  art  like  ; 
For  great  love  enthralls  me  so, 
That,  in  sooth,  I  scarcely  know. 
Show  me,  in  a  house  all  green, 
Save  for  long  gold  wedges'  sheen, 
Where  the  fhos,  white  sparks  of  fire, 
Dart  and  hover  and  aspire. 
And  the  leaves,  air-stirred  on  high, 
Feel  such  joy  they  needs  must  sigh, 
And  the  untracked  grass  makes  sweet 
All  fair  floAvers  to  touch  thy  feet. 
And  the  bees  about  them  lium. 
All  the  world  is  waiting.     Come  I 


A   WINTER  SONG.  44 » 


A  WINTER  SONG. 

Came  the  dread  Archer  up  yonder  lawn — 

Night  is  the  time  for  the  old  to  die — 
But  woe  for  an  arrow  that  smote  the  fawn, 

When  the  hind  that  was  sick  unscathed  went  by. 

Father  lay  moaning,  "  Her  fault  was  sore 
(Night  is  the  time  when  the  old  must  die), 

Yet,  ah  to  bless  her,  my  child,  once  more, 
For  heart  is  failing  :  the  end  is  nigh." 

"  Daughter,  my  daughter,  my  girl,"  I  cried 
(Night  is  the  time  for  the  old  to  die), 

"Woe  for  the  wish  if  till  morn  ye  bide" — 
Dark  was  the  welkin  and  wild  the  sky. 

Heavily  plunged  from  the  roof  the  snow — 
(Night  is  the  time  when  the  old  will  die), 

She  answered,  "  My  mother,  'tis  well,  I  go." 
Sparkled  the  north  star,  the  wrack  flew  high. 

First  at  his  head,  and  last  at  his  feet 

(Night  is  the  time  when  the  old  should  die). 

Kneeling  I  watched  till  his  soul  did  fleet, 
None  else  that  loved  him,  none  else  were  nigho 

I  wept  in  the  night  as  the  desolate  weep 
(Night  is  the  time  for  the  old  to  die), 

Cometh  my  daughter  ?  the  drifts  are  deep, 
Across  the  cold  hollows  how  white  they  lie. 

I  sought  her  afar  through  the  spectral  trees 
(Night  is  the  time  when  the  old  must  die), 

The  fells  were  al-1  muHled,  the  floods  did  freeze, 
And  a  wrathful  moon  hung  red  in  the  sky. 


442  BINDING  SHEA  VES. 


By  night  I  found  her  where  pent  waves  steal 
(Night  is  the  time  when  the  old  should  die), 

But  she  lay  stiff  by  the  locked  mill-wheel. 

And  the  old  stars  hved  in  their  homes  on  high. 


BINDING  SHEAVES. 

Hark  I  a  lover  binding  sheavea 

To  his  maiden  sings, 
Flutter,  flutter  go  the  leaves. 

Larks  drop  their  wiiigs. 
Little  brooks  for  all  their  mirth 

Are  not  blithe  as  he. 
"  Give  me  what  the  love  is  worth 

That  I  give  thee. 

•'  Speech  that  cannot  be  forborne 

Tells  the  story  through  : 
I  sowed  my  love  in  with  the  corcij, 

And  they  both  grew. 
Count  the  world  full  wide  of  pirth. 

And  hived  honey  sweet, 
But  count  the  love  of  more  worth 

Laid  at  thy  feet. 

""'  Money's  worth  is  house  and  land^ 

Velvet  coat  and  vest. 
Work's  worth  is  bread  in  hand, 

Ay,  and  sweet  rest. 
Wilt  thou  learn  what  love  is  worth  ? 

Ah  I  she  sits  above, 
Sighing,  '  Weigh  me  not  with  earth. 

Love's  v/urth  ia  iovo.'  " 


Hark  !  a  lover  binding  sheave* 
To  his  maiden  sings  ; 

Flutter,  flutter  go  the  leaves, 
Larks  drop  their  v^ings 


WISHING.  443 


WORK. 

Like  coral  insects  multitudinous 
The  minutes  are  wliereof  our  life  is  made. 
They  build  it  up  as  in  the  deep's  blue  shade 

It  glows,  it  comes  to  light,  and  then,  and  thus 

For  both  there  is  an  end.     The  populous 
Sea- blossoms  close,  our  minutes  that  have  paid 
Life's  debt  of  work  are  spent ;  the  work  is  laid 

Before  our  feet  that  shall  come  after  us. 

We  may  not  stay  to  watch  if  it  will  speed, 
The  bard  if  on  some  luter's  string  his  song 

Live  sweetly  yet ;  the  hero  if  his  star 

Doth  shine.     Work  is  its  own  best  earthly  meed, 
Else  have  we  none  more  than  the  sea-born  throng 

Who  wrought  thoise  marvellous  isles  that  bloom  afar. 


WISHING. 


Wheist  I  reflect  how  little  I  have  done, 

And  add  to  that  how  little  I  have  seen, 
nien  furthermore  how  little  I  have  won 
Of  joy,  or  good,  how  little  known,  or  been  : 
I  long  for  other  life  more  full,  more  keen. 
And  yearn  to  change  with  such  as  well  hav-j  run — 

Yet  reason  njocks  me — nay,  the  soul,  I  ween, 
Granted  her  choice  would  dare  to  change  with  none 
No,  not  to  feel,  as  Ulondel  when  his  lay 

Pierced  the  strong  tower,  and  Richard  answered 
it- 
No,  not  to  do,  as  Eustace  on  the  day 

lie  left  fair  Calais  to  her  weeping  lit — 
No,  not  to  be, — Columbus,  waked  from  sleep 
When  his  new  world  rose  from  the  charmud  ucei<. 


444     ON  THE  BORDERS  OF  CANNOCK  CHASE. 


TO  . 

Stkangk  was  the  doom  of  Heracles,  whose  shade 

Had  dwelhng  in  dim  Hades  the  unblest, 

While  yet  his  form  and  presence  sat  a  g!i-^st 
With  the  old  immortals  when  the  feast  was  made. 
Thine  like,  thus  differs  ;  form  and  presence  laid 

In  this  dim  chamber  of  enforced  rest, 

It  is  the  unseen  "  shade  "  which,  risen,  hath  pressed 
Above  all  heights  where  feet  Olympian  strayed. 
My  soul  admires  to  hear  thee  speak  ;  thy  thought 

Falls  from  a  high  place  like  an  August  star, 
Or  some  great  eagle  from  his  air-hung  rings — 

When  swooping  past  a  snow-cold  mountain  scar- 
Down  the  steep  slope  of  a  long  sunbeam  brought, 

He  stirs  the  wheat  with  the  steerage  of  his  wings. 


ON  THE  BORDERS  OF  CANNOCK  CHASB. 

A  COTTAGER  leaned  whispering  by  her  hives, 
Telling  the  bees  some  news,  as  they  litdownj 
And  entered  one  by  one  their  waxen  town. 

Larks  passioning  hung  o'er  their  brooding  wives, 

And  all  the  sunny  hills  where  heather  thrives 
Lay  satisfied  with  j^eace.     A  statelj'  crown 
Of  trees  enringed  the  upper  headland  brown, 

And  reedy  pools,  wherein  the  moor-hen  dives, 

U  littered  and  gleamed. 

A  resting-T)lace  for  light, 
Tliey  that  Avere  bred  here  love  it ;  i>ut  th(!y  say, 

"  We  shall  not  have  it  long;  in  three  years'  lima 
A  hundred  pits  will  cast  out  fires  by  night, 
Down  yon  still  glen  their  smoke  shall  trail  its  way, 

AiiU  tJ^c  whito  ash  lii;  thick  iu  iiou  of  rimo." 


THE  MARINER'S  CA  VE,  445 


THE  MARINER'S  CAVE. 

Once  on  a  time  there  walked  a  mariner, 
That  had  been  shipwrecked,  on  a  lonely  shore, 

And  the  green  water  made  a  restless  stir, 
And  a  great  flock  of  news  sped  on  before. 

He  had  nor  food  nor  shelter,  for  the  tide 

Rose  on  the  one,  and  cliffs  on  the  other  side. 

Brown  cliffs  they  were  ;  they  seemed  to  pierce  the 
sky, 

That  was  an  awful  deep  of  empty  blue. 
Save  that  the  wind  was  in  it,  and  on  high 

A  wavering  skein  of  wild-fowl  tracked  it  through. 
He  marked  them  not,  but  went  with  movement  slow, 
Because  his  thoughts  were  sad,  his  courage  low. 

His  heart  was  numb,  he  neither  wept  nor  sighed^ 

But  wearifully  lingered  by  the  wave  ; 
Until  at  length  it  chanced  that  he  espied, 

Far  up,  an  opening  in  the  cliff,  a  cave, 
A  shelter  where  to  sleep  in  his  distress. 
And  lose  his  sorrow  in  forgetfulness. 

With  that  he  clambered  up  the  rugged  face 
Of  that  steep  cliff  that  all  in  shadow  lay, 

And,  lo,  there  was  a  dry  and  homelike  place, 
Comforting  refuge  for  the  castaway  ; 

And  he  laid  down  his  wearyr  weary  head, 

And  took  his  fill  of  sleep  till  dawn  waxed  red. 

When  he  awoke,  warm  stirring  from  the  south 
Of  delicate  summer  air  did  sough  and  flow  ; 

He  rose,  and,  wending  to  the  cavern's  mouth, 
He  cast  his  eyes  a  little  way  below. 

Where  on  the  narrow  ledges,  sharp  and  rude. 

Preening  their  wings,  the  blue  rock-pigeons  cooed. 


446  THE  MARINER'S  CA  VE. 

Then  lie  looked  lower  and  saw  the  lavender 
And  sea-thrift  blooming  in  long  crevices, 

And  the  brown  wallflower — April's  messenger, 
The  wallflower  marshalled  in  her  companies. 

Then  lower  yet  he  looked  adown  the  steep, 

And  sheer  beneath  him  lapped  the  lovely  deep. 

The  laughing  deep  ; — and  it  was  pacified 
As  if  it  had  not  raged  that  other  day. 

And  it  went  murmuring  in  the  morningtide 
Innumerable  flatteries  on  its  way. 

Kissing  the  cliffs  and  whispering  at  their  feet 

With  exquisite  advancement,  and  retreat. 

This  when  the  mariner  beheld  he  sighed, 
And  thought  on  his  companions  lying  low. 

But  while  he  gazed  with  eyes  unsatisfied 
On  the  fair  reaches  of  their  overthrow. 

Thinking  it  strange  he  only  lived  of  all, 

But  not  returning  thanks,  he  heard  a  call  I 

A  soft  sweet  call,  a  voice  of  tender  ruth, 

He  thought  it  oame  from  out  the  cave.     And,  lo, 

It  whispered,  "  Man,  look  up  I  "     But  he,  forsooth, 
Answered,  "  I  cannot,  for  the  long  waves  flow 

Across  my  gallant  ship  where  sunk  she  Ues 

With  all  my  riches  and  my  merchandise. 

"  Moreover,  I  am  heavy  for  the  fate 
Of  these  my  mariners  drowned  in  the  deep  ; 

I  must  lament  me  for  their  sad  estate 
Now  they  are  gathered  in  their  last  long  sleep. 

O  1  the  unpitying  heavens  upon  me  frown. 

Then  how  should  I  look  up  I — I  must  look  down." 

And  he  stood  yet  watching  the  fair  green  sea 

Till  hunger  reached  hiiu  ;  tlien  he  made  a  firo, 
A  drif':wood  fire,  and  wandered  listlessly 


THE  MARINER'S  CAVE.  447 

And  gathered  many  eggs  at  his  dosire, 
And  dressed  them  for  his  meal,  and  then  he  lay 
And  slept,  and  woke  upon  the  second  day. 

When  as  he  said,  "  the  cave  shall  be  my  home  ; 

None  will  molest  me,  for  the  brown  cliffs  rise 
Lilie  castles  of  defence  behind, — the  foam 

Of  the  remorseless  sea  beneath  me  lies  ; 
'Tis  easy  from  the  cliff  my  food  to  win, — 
The  nations  of  the  rock-dove  breed  thereiu. 

"  For  fuel,  at  the  ebb  yon  fair  expanse 
Is  strewed  with  driftwood  by  the  breaking  wave,  • 

And  in  the  sea  is  fish  for  sustenance. 

I  will  build  up  the  entrance  of  the  cave, 

And  leave  therein  a  window  and  a  door, 

And  here  will  dwell  and  leave  it  nevermoro." 

Then  even  so  he  did  ;  and  when  his  task, 
Many  long  days  being  over,  was  complete  ; 

When  he  had  eaten,  as  he  sat  to  bask 
In  the  red  firelight  glowing  at  his  feet. 

He  was  right  glad  of  shelter,  and  he  said, 

"  Now  for  my  comrades  am  I  comforted." 

Then  did  the  voice  awake  and  speak  again  ; 

It  murmured,   "  Man  look  up  I  "     But  he  replied, 
"  I  cannot.     O,  mine  eyes,  mine  eyes  are  fain 

Down  on  the  red  wood-ashes  to  abide 
Because  they  warm  me."     Then  the  voice  was  still. 
And  left  the  lonely  mariner  to  his  will. 

And  soon  it  came  to  pass  that  he  got  gain. 

He  had  great  flocks  of  pigeons  which  he  fed, 
And  drew  great  store  of  fish  from  out  the  main. 

And  down  from  eider  ducks  ;  and  then  he  said, 
"  It  is  not  good  that  I  should  lead  my  hfe 
In  silence,  I  will  take  to  me  a  wife.  ' 


448  THE  MARINER'S  CA  VE. 


He  took  a  wife,  and  brought  her  home  to  him ; 

And  he  was  good  to  her  and  cherished  her 
So  that  she  loved  him  j  then  when  hght  waxed  dim 

Gloom  came  no  more  ;  and  she  would  minister 
To  all  his  wants  ;  while  he,  being  well  content, 
Counted  her  company  right  excellent. 

But  once  as  on  the  lintel  of  the  door 
She  leaned  to  watch  him  while  he  put  to  seu. 

This  happy  wife,  down-gazing  at  the  shore, 
Said  sweetly,  "  It  is  better  now  with  me 

Than  it  was  lately  when  I  used  to  spin 

In  my  old  father's  house  beside  the  lin." 

And  then  the  soft  voice  of  the  cave  awoke — 
The  soft  voice  which  had  haunted  it  erewhile — 

And  gently  to  the  wife  is  also  si:)oke, 

"  Woman,  look  up  !  "     But  she  with  tender  guile 

Gave  it  denial,  answering,  "  Nay,  not  so, 

For  all  that  I  should  look  on  lieth  below. 

"  The  great  sky  overhead  is  not  so  good 
For  my  two  eyes  as  yonder  stainless  sea, 

The  source  and  yielder  of  our  livelihood, 
Where  rocks  his  little  boat  that  loveth  me" 

This  when  the  wife  had  said  she  moved  away. 

And  looked  no  higher  than  the  wave  all  day. 

Now  when  the  year  ran  out  a  child  she  bore, 
And  there  was  such  rejoicing  in  the  cavc 

As  surely  never  had  there  been  before 

Since   God  first  made  it.     Then  full,  sweet,  and 
grave. 

The  voice,  "  God's  utmost  blessing  brims  thy  cup, 

O,  father  of  this  child,  look  up,  look  up  ! " 

"  Speak  to  my  wife,"  the  mariner  replied. 

"  I  have    much   work — right    welcome   work   'ti« 
true — 


TfTE  MARINER'S  CAVE.  4''0 


Another  moutii  to  feed."     And  then  it  piffhed, 

"  W«  .x.an,  lo.  ik  up  !  "     She  said^   "  Make  no  ado. 
For  I  mast  needs  look  down,  on  anywise, 
My  heaven  is  in  the  blue  of  these  dear  eyes." 

The  seasons  of  the  year  did  swiftly  whirl, 

They  measured  time  by  one  small  life  alone  ; 

On  such  a  day  the  pretty  pushing  pearl 

That  mouth  they  loved  to  kiss  had  sweetly  sJiovvjij 

That  smiling  mouth,  and  it  had  made  essay 

To  give  them  names  on  such  another  day. 

And  afterward  his  infant  history, 

Whether  he  played  with  baubles  on  the  floor, 
Or  crept  to  pat  the  rock-doves  pecking  nigh, 

And  feeding  on  the  threshold  of  the  door, 
They  loved  to  mark,  and  alThis  marvellings  dim, 
The  mysteries  that  beiiuiled  and  balHed  him 

He  was  so  sweet,  that  oft  his  mother  said, 
"O,  child,  how  was  it  that  I  dwelt  content 

Before  thou  earnest  1     Blessings  on  thy  head, 
Tl  V  y^T-'uy  talk  it  is  so  innocent, 

'that  oft  for  all  my  joy,  though  it  be  deep, 

When  thou  art  prattling,  1  am  like  to  weep.'* 

Summer  and  winter  si)ent  themselves  again, 
The  rock-doves  in  their  season  bred,  the  clill 

Grew  sweet,  for  every  cleft  would  entertain 
Its  tuft  of  blossom,  and  the  mariner's  skiff, 

Eaily  and  late,  would  linger  in  the  bay. 

Because  the  sea  was  calm  and  winds  away. 

The  little  child  about  that  rocky  height. 

Led  by  her  loving  hand  who  gave  him  birth, 

Might  wander  in  the  clear  unclouded  light, 
And  take  his  pastime  in  the  beauteous  earth  ; 

Bnieil  the  fair  flowers  in  stony  cradles  swung, 

And  see  God's  happy  ci'eatures  feed  their  young. 

'2U 


^3o  THE  MARINER'S  CAVE. 

Aiid  once  it  came  to  pass,  at  eventido, 
His  mother  set  him  in  the  cavern  door, 

And  filled  his  lap  with  fjrain,  and  stood  aside 
To  watch  the  circling  rock-doves  soar,  and  soar, 

Then  dip,  alight,  and  ran  in  circling  bands, 

To  take  the  barley  from  his  open  hands. 

h  nd  even  while  she  stood  and  gazed  at  him, 
And  his  grave  father's  eyes  upon  him  dwelt. 

They  heard  the  tender  voice,  and  it  was  dim, 
And  seemed  full  softly  in  the  air  to  molt ; 

"Father,"  it  murmured,   "Mother,"  dying  awn  v, 

"  Look  up,  while  yet  the  hours  are  called  to-day." 

"  I  will,"  the  father  answered,  "  lout  not  now ;  " 
The  mother  said,  °'  Sweet  voice,  O  speak  to  me 

At  a  convenient  season."     And  ihe  brow 
Of  the  clilf  began  to  quake  right  fearfully, 

There  was  a  rending  crash,  and  there  did  leap 

A  riven  rock  and  plunge  into  the  deep. 

They  said,  "  A  storm  is  coming  ;  "  but  they  slept 
Tnat  night  in   peace,  and  thought  the  storm  had 
passed, 

For  there  was  not  a  cloud  to  intercept 
Tlie  sacred  moonlight  on  the  cradle  cast; 

K\\(\  to  liis  rocking  boat  at  dawn  f)f  day, 

With  joy  of  heart  the  mariner  took  his  way. 

But  when  he  mounted  up  the  path  at  night, 

Foreboding  not  of  trouble  or  mischance, 
nis  wife  came  out  into  the  fading  light, 

And  met  him  with  a  serious  countenance; 
And  siie  broke  out  in  tejirs  and  sobbings  thick, 
'The  child  is  sick,  my  little  child  is'sick." 

Tiiey  knelt  beside  him  in  the  sultry  dark, 

And  when  the  moon  looked  in  his  face  was  pale, 
And  when  the  red  sun,  like  a  buriiiiig  bark. 


THE  MARINER'S  CAVE.  45 1 

Rose  in  a  fog  at  sea,  his  tender  v/ail 
Sank  deep  into  their  hearts,  and  piteously 
Tliey  fell  to  ciiiding  of  their  destiny. 

Tlie  doves  unheeded  cooed  that  Hvelong  day, 
Tlieir  pretty  playmate  cared  for  them  no  more  ; 

The  sea-thrift  nodded,  wet  witli  glistening  spray, 
None   gathered   it ;    the    long    wave    washed  the 
shore  ; 

ne  did  not  know,  nor  lift  his  eyes  to  trace, 

The  new  fallen  shadow  in  his  dwelling-place. 

The  sultry  sun  beat  on  the  cliffs  all  day, 

And  hot  calm  airs  slept  on  the  polished  sea, 

The  mournful  mother  wore  her  time  away. 
Bemoaning  of  her  helpless  misery. 

Pleading  and  plaining,  till  the  day  was  done, 

"  O  look  on  me,  my  love,  my  little  one. 

"  What  aileth  thee,  that  thou  dost  lie  and  moan  ? 

Ah  !  would  that  I  might  bear  it  in  thy  stead." 
The  father  made  not  his  forebodings  known. 

But  gazed,  and  in  his  secret  soul  he  said, 
"I  may  have  sinned,  on  sin  waits  punishment. 
But  as  for  him,  sweet  blameless  innocent, 

"  What  has  he  done  that  he  is  stricken  down  ? 

O  it  is  hard  to  see  him  sink  and  fade, 
When  I,  that  counted  him  my  dear  life's  crown. 

So  willingly  have  worked  while  he  lias  played ; 
That  he  might  sleep,  have  risen,  come  storm,  come 

heat. 
And  thankfully  would  fast  that  he  might  eat." 

Illy  (iod,  now  short  our  happy  days  appear  ! 

How  long  the  sorrowful  !     They  thought  it  long, 
The  sultry  morn  that  brought  such  evil  cheer. 

And  sat,  and  wished,  and  sighed  for  evensong  ; 
It  came,  and  cooling  wafts  about  him  stirred. 
Yet  when  thej  spoke  he  answered  not  a  word. 


/J5;2  THE  MARINER'S  CAVE. 

**  Take  heart,"  they  cried,  but  their  sad  hearts  sank 
low 

When  he  would  moan  and  turn  his  restless  head, 
And  wearily  the  lagging  morns  would  go. 

And  nights,  while  they  sat  watching  by  his  bed, 
Until  a  storm  came  up  with  wind  and  rain, 
And  lightning  ran  along  the  troubled  main. 

Over  their  heads  the  mighty  thunders  brake, 
Leaping  and  tumbling  down  from  rock  to  rock, 

Then  burst  anew  and  made  the  clifTs  to  quake 
As  they  were  living  things  and  felt  the  shock  j 

The  waiting  sea  to  sob  as  if  in  pain, 

And  all  the  midnight  vault  to  ring  again. 

A  lamp  was  burning  in  the  mariner's  cave, 
But  the  blue  lightning  flashes  made  it  dim  ; 

And  when  the  motlier  heard  those  Tliunders  rave, 
She  took  her  little  child  to  cherish  him  ; 

She  took  him  in  her  arms,  and  on  her  breast 

Full  wearily  she  courted  him  to  rest, 

And  soothed  him  long  until  the  storm  was  spent, 
And  the  last  thunder  peal  had  died  away, 

And  stars  were  out  in  all  the  firinaiitenr. 

Then  did  he  cease  to  moan,  and  .slumbering  lay. 

While  in  the  welcome  silence,  pure  and  deep, 

The  care-worn  parents  sweetly  fell  asleep. 

And  in  a  dream,  enwrought  with  fancies  thick. 
The  mother  thought  she  heard  the  rock-doves  coo 

(She  had  forgotten  that  her  chiki  was  sick), 

And  she  went  forth  their  iiiornitig  meal  to  strew  : 

Then  over  ail  the  cliff  witli  earnest  care 

She  sought  her  child,  and  lo,  he  was  not  there  J 

Dut  she  was  not  afraid,  though  long  she  sought 

And  climbed  the  clilf,  and  s(>t  h'^r  feet  in  grass. 
Then  reached  a  river,  broad  and  full,  she  thought, 


THE  MARINER'S  CA  VE.  453 

And  at  its  brink  he  sat.     Alas  !  alas  1 
For  one  stood  near  him,  fair  and  nndefiled, 
An  innocent,  a  marvellous  man-child. 

In  garments  white  as  wool,  and  O.  most  fair, 
A  rainbow  covered  him  with  mystic  light ; 

Upon  the  warmtd  grass  his  feet  were  bare, 
And  as  he  breathed,  the  rainbow  in  her  sight 

In  passions  of  clear  crimson  trembling  lay, 

With  gold  and  violet  mist  made  fair  the  day. 

ner  little  life  !  she  thought,  his  little  hands 
Were  full  of  flowers  that  he  did  play  withal ; 

But  when  he  saw  the  boy  o'  the  golden  lands, 
And  looked  him  in  the  face,  he  let  them  fall, 

Held  through  a  rapturous  pause  in  wistful  wise 

To  the  sweet  strangeness  of  those  keen  child-eyes. 

*'  Ah,  dear  and  awful  God,  who  chastenest  me, 
How  shall  my  soul  to  this  be  reconciled. 

It  is  the  Saviour  of  the  world,"  quoth  she, 
"  And  to  my  child  He  cometh  as  a  child." 

Then  on  her  knees  she  fell  by  that  vast  stream— 

Oh,  it  was  sorrowful,  this  woman's  dream  I 

For  lo,  that  Elder  Child  drew  nearer  now. 
Fair  as  the  light,  and  purer  than  the  sun. 

The  calms  of  heaven  were  brooding  on  his  brow, 
And  in  his  arms  He  took  her  little  one. 

Her  child,  that  knew  her,  but  with  sweet  demur 

Drew  back,  nor  held  his  hands  lo  come  to  her. 

With  that  iu  mother  misery  sore  she  wept — 
"  O  Lamb  of  God,  I  love  my  child  so  MUCH  1 

He  stole  away  to  Thee  while  we  two  slei:)t, 
But  give  him  back,  for  Thou  hast  many  such  ; 

And  as  for  me  1  have  but  one.     O  deign, 

Dear  Pity  of  God,  to  give  him  me  again." 


454  ^  REVERIE. 


Ilis  feet  were  on  the  river.     Oh,  his  feet 

Had  touched  the  river  now,  and  it  Avas  great  \ 

And  yet  He  hearkened  when  she  did  entreat, 
And  turned  in  quietness  as  He  would  wait — 

Wait  till  she  looked  upon  Him,  and  behold, 

There  lay  a  long  way  off  a  city  of  gold. 

Like  to  a  jasper  and  a  sardine  Ltone, 

Whelmed  in  the  rainbow  stood  that  fair  man-child, 
Mighty  and  innocent,  that  held  her  own. 

And  as  might  be  his  manner  at  home  he  smiled, 
Then  while  she  looked  and  looked,  the  vision  brake, 
And  all  amazed  she  started  up  awake. 

And  lo,  her  little  child  was  gone  indeed  ! 

The  Gleep  that  knows  no  waking  he  had  .slept, 
Folded  to  heaven's  own  heart  ;  in  rainbow  brede 
Clothed  and  made  triad,  while  they  two  mourned 
and  wept. 
But  in  the  drinking  of  their  bitter  cup 
The  sweet  voice  si>oke  ouce  more,  and  sighed,  "  Look 
up !  " 

They  heard,  and  straightway  answered,  "  Even  so: 
For  what  abides  that  we  should  look  on  here  ? 

The  heavens  are  better  than  this  earth  below, 
They  are  of  more  account  and  far  more  dear. 

We  will  look  up,  for  all  most  sweet  and  fair. 

Most  pure,  most  excellent,  is  garnered  there." 


A  REVERIE, 

Whkn  T  do  sit  apart 

And  commune  with  my  heart, 
She  brings  me  forth  the  treasures  once  uiy  ovm; 

Shows  nie  a  happy  place 

Where  leaf-buds  swelled  apace, 
tiljU  wuBtiug  rims  of  snow  in  sunlight  shone. 


Once  to  that  cottage  door, 
In  happy  days  of  yore. 
My  little  love  made  footprints  in  the  snon. 
She  was  so  glad  of  spring, 
She  helped  the  birds  to  ting. 


A  REVERIE.  45 S 


Rock,  in  a  inossy  p:lade, 

The  larch-trees  leixl  thee  shade, 
That  just  befj:in  to  featlier  with  their  leaves  ; 

From  Gilt  thy  crevice  deep 

White  tnfts  of  snowdrops  peep, 
A.nd  melted  rime  drips  softly  froui  thine  eaves. 

Ah,  rock,  I  know,  I  know 

Tha,t  yet  thy  snowdrops  grow, 
And  yet  doth  sunshine  fleck  them  through  the  tree, 

Whose  sheltering  branches  hide 

The  cottage  at  its  side. 
That  nevermore  will  shade  or  shelter  me. 

I  know  the  stockdoves'  note 

Athwart  the  glen  doth  float ; 
With  sweet  foreknowledge  of  her  twins  oppressed, 

And  longings  onward  sent, 

She  broods  before  the  event, 
While  leisurely  she  mends  her  shallow  nest. 

Onee  to  that  cottage  door. 

In  happy  days  of  yore, 
My  little  love  made  footprints  in  the  snow. 

She  was  so  glad  of  spring, 

She  helped  the  birds  to  sing, 
1  know  she  dwells  thei*e  yet — the  rest  I  do  not  kno\v: 

They  sang,  and  would  not  stop, 

While  drop,  and  drop,  and  drop, 
1  heard  the  melted  rime  in  sunshine  fall^ 

And  narrow  wandering  rills, 

Whore  leaned  the  dallodils, 
Murmured  and  murmured  on,  and  that  was  all. 

I  think,  but  cannot  tell, 
1  think  she  loved  me  well, 
And  some  dear  fancy  with  my  future  twined. 


4S<'  DEFTON-  WOOD. 


iJut  I  sliall  never  know, 
Hope  faints,  and  iets  it  po. 
That  passionate  want  forbid  to  speak  its  mind. 


DEFTON  WOOD. 

I  HELD  my  way  tlirouffh  Defton  Wood 

And  on  to  Waniior  Hall  ; 
The  dancing  leaf  letdown  the  liglit, 

In  hovering  spots  to  fall. 
"O  young,  j'oung  leaves,  yon  match  me  well," 

My  heart  was  merry,  and  sung — 
"  Now  wish  me  joy  of  my  SM^eet  youth  ; 

My  love— she,  too,  is  youiiL-: 

O  so  njany,  many,  many 

Little  homes  above  my  liead  ! 
O  so  many,  many,  many 

Dancing  blossoms  round  me  spread  J 
O  so  many,  many,  many 

Maidens  sighing  yet  for  nor)e  ! 
Speed,  ye  wooers,  speed  with  any — 

Speed  with  all  but  one." 

I  took  my  leave  of  Wandor  Ilali, 

And  trod  the  woodland  ways, 
"  What  shall  I  do  so  long  to  bear 

The  burden  of  my  days  ?  " 
I  sighcil  my  heart  into  the  boutrhs 

Whereby  the  culvers  cooed  ; 
For  only  I  between  them  went 

Un  wooing  and  unwooed. 

"  O  so  many,  many,  many 

Lilies  bending  stately  heads  \ 
O  so  many,  many,  many 

Strawberries  ripened  un  tiieir  bedal 


THE  SNOWDROP  MONUMRA'T.  457 


O  so  many,  many,  many 

Maids,  and  yet  my  heart  undone  \ 
What  to  me  are  all.  are  any — 

1  have  lost  my — one." 


TOE  SNOWDROP  MONUMENT, 

{In  Lichfield  Cathedral). 

Marvkls  of  sleep,  grown  cold  I 

Who  hath  not  longed  to  fold 
With  pitying  ruth,  forgetful  of  their  bliss, 

Those  cherub  forms  that  lie, 

With  none  to  watch  them  nigh, 
Or  touch  the  silent  lips  with  one  warm  human  ^ssT 

What !  they  are  left  alone 

All  night  with  f::raven  stone, 
Pillars  and  arch«!s  that  above  them  meet  ; 

While  through  those  windows  high 

The  journeying  stars  can  spy, 
And  dim  blue  moonbeams  drop  on   their  uncovered 
feet? 

O  cold  !  yet  look  again, 

There  is  a  wandering  vein 
Traced  in  the  liand  where  those  white  snowdrops  lie. 

Let  her  rapt  dreamy  smile 

The  wondering  heart  beguile. 
That  almost  thinks  to  hear  a  calm  contented  sigh^ 

What  silence  dwells  between 

Those  severed  lips  serene  ! 
The  rupture  of  sweet  waiting  breathes  and  grows. 

What  trance-liko  peace  i=!  shed 

On  her  reclining  head, 
And  o'en  on  listless  feet  what  languor  of  reposo  1 


45 8  THE  SNOWDROP  MONUMENT. 

Angels  of  joy  and  love 

Lean  softly  from  above 
And  whisper  to  her  sweet  and  marvellous  things  ; 

'fell  of  the  f^olden  gate 

That  opened  wide  doth  wa,it, 
And  shadow  her  dim  sleep  with  their  celestial  wings. 

Dearinp:  of  that  hlest  shore 

She  thinks  on  earth  no  more, 
Contented  to  forejjo  this  wintry  land. 

She  has  nor  thought  nor  care 

But  to  rest  calmly  there, 
And  hold  the  snowdrops  pale  that  blossom  in  hot 
hand. 

But  on  the  other  face 

Broodeth  a  mournful  grace, 
This  had  foreboding  thoughts  beyond  her  years, 

While  sinking  thus  to  sleep 

She  saw  her  mother  weep, 
And  could  not  lift  her  hand  to  dry  those  heart-sick 
tears. 

Could  not — but  failing  lay, 

Sighed  her  young  life  away, 
And  let  her  arm  drop  down  in  listless  rest, 

Too  weary  on  that  bed 

To  turn  her  dying  head, 
Or  foUl  the  little  sister  nearer  to  her  breacit. 

Yet  this  is  faintly  told 

On  features  fair  and  cold, 
A  look  of  calm  surprise,  of  meek  regret. 

As  if  with  life  oppressed 

She  turned  her  to  her  rest, 
But  felt. her  mother's  love  and  looked  not  to  forget. 


AN  ANCIENT  CHESS  KING.  459 

How  wistfully  they  close, 

Sweet  eyes,  to  their  repose  ! 
How  quietly  declines  the  placid  brow  I 

The  young  lips  seem  to  says 

"  I  have  wept  luuch  to-day. 
And  felt  some  bitter  pains,  but  they  are  over  now." 

Sleep  !  there  are  left  below 

Many  who  pine  to  go, 
Many  who  lay  it  to  their  chastened  souls, 

That  gloomy  days  draw  nigh, 

And  they  are  blest  who  die, 
For  this  green  world  growa  worse  the  longer  that  sho 
rolls. 

And  as  for  me  I  know 

A  little  of  her  woe. 
Her  yeai-ning  want  doth  in  my  boul  abide, 

And  sighs  of  them  that  weep, 

"  O  put  us  soon  to  sleep, 
For  when  we  wake— with  Thee — we  shall  be  satisfied." 


AH  ANCIENT  GUESS  KING. 

Haply  some  Rajah  first  in  the  ages  gone 
Amid  his  languid  ladies  fingered  thee. 
While  a  black  nightingale,  sun-swart  as  he, 

Sang  his  one  wife,  love's  passionate  oraison  ; 

Haply  thou  may'st  have  pleased  Old  Prester  John 
Among  his  pastures,  when  full  royally 
He  sat  ir.  tent,  grave  shepherds  iit  his  knee, 

While  lamps  of  balsam  winked  and  glimmered  on. 

What  dost  thou  here  ?     Thy  masters  are  all  dead  3 
My  lieart  is  full  of  ruth  and  yearning  pain 


m 


460  THOUGH  ALL  GREAT  DEEDS. 

At  sight  of  thee  ;  O  king:  that  hast  a  crown 

Outlasting  theirs,  and  tell'st  of  greatness  fled 
Through  cloud-hung  nights  of  unabated  rain 
And  murmurs  of  the  dark  majestic  town. 


COMFORT  IX  THE  NIGHT. 

She  thought  by  heaven's  high  wall  that  she  did  stray 

Till  she  beheld  the  everlasting  gate  : 

And  she  climbed  up  to  it  to  long,  and  Avait, 
Feel  with  her  hands  (for  it  was  night),  and  lay 
Her  lips  to  it  with  kisses  ;  thus  to  pray 

That  it  might  open  to  her  desolate. 

And  io  I  it  trembled,  lo !  her  passionate 
Crying  prevailed.     A  little,  little  way 
It  opened  :  there  fell  out  a  thread  of  light, 

And  she  saw  winged  wonders  move  within  ; 
Also  she  heard  sweet  talking  as  they  meant 
To  comfort  her.     They  said,  "  Who  comes  to-night 

Shall  one  day  certainly  an  entrance  win  ;  " 
Then  the  gate  closed  and  she  awoke  content. 


THOUGH  ALL  GREAT  DEEDS. 

Though  all  great  deeds  were  proved  but  fables  fine, 
Though  earth's  old  story  could  be  told  anew, 
Though  the  sweet  fashions  Iov-hI  of  them  that  suo 
"V7ere  empty  as  the  ruined  Deljjiiian  shrine — 
Though  God  did  never  man,  in  words  benign, 
With  sense  of  His  groat  Fatherhood  endue, — 
Though  life  iniiiiurtal  were  a  dream  untrue. 
And  He  that  jjromised  it  were  not  divine — 
Though  soul,  though  spirit  were  not,  and  all  hope 
Reaching  beyond  the  bourn,  melted  away  \ 


THE  LONG  WHITE  SEAM.  461 

Though  virtue  had  no  goal  and  good  no  scope, 

But  both  were  doomed  to  end  with  tliis  our  clay — 
Though  all  these  were  not, — to  the  ungrat^ed  heir 
Would  this  remain, — to  live,  as  though  they  were. 


THE  LONG  WHITE  SEAM. 

As  T  canie  round  tlie  harbor  buoy, 

The  lights  began  to  gleam, 
No  wave  the  land-locked  water  stirred, 

The  crags  were  white  as  cream  ; 
And  1  marked  my  love  by  candle-light 
Sewing  her  long  white  seam. 
It's  aye  sewing  ashore,  my  dear, 

Watch  and  steer  at  sea, 
Jt"s  reef  and  furl,  and  haul  the  line, 
Set  sail  and  think  uf  thee. 

I  climbed  to  reach  her  cottage  door  \ 

O  sweetly  my  love  sings  ! 
Like  a  shaft  of  light  her  voice  breaks  forth, 
My  soul  to  meet  it  springs 
As  the  shining  water  leaped  of  old, 
When  stirred  by  angel  wings. 
Aye  longing  to  list  anew. 

Awake  and  in  my  dream. 
But  never  a  song  she  sang  like  this, 
Sewing  her  long  white  seam. 

Fair  fall  the  lights,  the  harbor  lights, 

That  brouglit  me  in  to  thee, 
And  peace  drop  down  on  that  low  roof 

For  the  siglit  tliat  1  did  s(»e, 
And  the  voice,  my  dear,  tliat  rang  su  clear 

Ail  for  the  love  of  me. 


462  AN  OLD   WIFE'S  ^ONG. 

For  O,  for  O,  with  brows  bent  low 
By  the  candle's  flickering  gleam, 

Her  wedding  gown  it  Avas  she  wrought, 
Sewing  tlie  lo)ig  white  seam. 


AN  OLD  WIFE'S  SONG,> 

And  what  will  ye  hear,  my  daughters  dear  ? — • 

Oh,  what  will  ye  hear  this  night? 
Shall  I  sing  you  a  song  of  the  yuletide  vheer, 

Or  of  lovers  and  ladies  bright  ? 

"  Thou  shalt  sing."  they  say  (for  we  dwell  far  away 
From  the  laml  where  fain  would  we  be), 

"  Thou  shalt  sing  us  again  some  old-world  strain 
That  is  sung  in  t)ur  own  countrie. 

'  Thou  shalt  mind  us  so  of  the  times  long  ago, 

When  we  walked  on  the  upland  lea. 
While  the  old  harbor  light  waxed  faint  in  the  white 

Long  rays  shooting  out  irom  the  sea  ; 

"  While  lands  were  yet  asleep,  and  the  dew  lay  deep 
On  the  grass,  and  their  fleeces  clean  and  fair. 

Never  grass  was  seen  so  thick  nor  so  green 
As  the  grass  that  grew  up  there  ! 

'  In  the  town  was  no  smoke,  for  none  there  a.woko — 
At  our  feet  it  lay  .^till  as  still  could  be ; 

And  we  saw  far  below  the  long  viver  dow, 
And  the  schooners  a-warping  out  to  dea. 

''Sing  us  now  a  strain  shall  make  us  feel  again 
As  we  felt  in  that  sacred  peace  of  morn, 

When  we  had  the  first  view  of  the  wet  sparklingdew, 
In  the  shyness  of  »i  day  just  born." 


COLD  AND  QUIET.  463 

So  I  sang  aii  old  song — it  was  plain  and  not  long — 
I  had  sung  it  very  oft  when  they  were  small  ; 

And  long  ere  it  was  done  they  wept  every  one  : 
Yet  this  was  all  the  song — this  was  all : — 

The  snow  lies  white,  and  the  moon  gives  light, 

I'll  out  to  the  freezing  mere, 
And  ease  my  heart  with  one  little  song, 

For  none  will  be  uigh  to  hear. 

And  it's  O  my  love,  my  love  I 

And  it's  O  my  deai,  my  dear  ! 
It's  of  her  that  I'll  sing  till  the  wild  woods  ring. 

When  nobody's  nigh  to  hear. 

My  lovG  is  young,  she  is  young,  is  young  3 

When  she  laughs  the  dimple  dips. 
We  walked  in  thb  wind,  and  her  long  locks  blew 

Till  sweetly  they  touched  my  lips. 

And  I'll  out  to  the  freezing  mere, 

Where  the  stiff  reeds  whistle  so  low, 
And  I'll  tell  my  mind  to  the  friendly  wind, 

Because  I  have  loved  her  so. 

Ay,  and  she's  true,  my  lady  is  true  ! 

And  that's  tht.  best  of  it  all  ; 
And  when  she  blushes  my  heart  so  yearns 

That  tears  are  ready  to  fall. 

And  it's  O  my  lovo,  my  love  I 

And  it's  O  my  dear,  my  dear! 
It's  of  her  that  I'll  sing  till  the  wild  woods  ring, 

When  nobody's  nigh  to  hear. 


COLD  AND  QUIET. 

Cold,  my  dear, — cold  and  quiet. 

In  their  cups  on  yonder  lea. 
Cowslips  fold  the  brown  bee's  diet ; 

So  the  moss  enfoideth  thee. 


viJ4  A  SNOiv  mountain: 

"  Plant  me,  plant  me,  O  love,  a  lily  flower — 
Plant  at  my  head,  I  pray  yon,  a  fzireen  tree  ; 

And  when  our  children  sleep,"  she  siyhed,  "  at  the 
dusk  hour, 
And  when  the  lily  blossoms,  O  come  out  to  me  I  " 

Lost,  my  dear  ?     Lost  !   nay,  deepest 

Love  ii-  that  which  loseth  least  ; 
Through  the  night-time  while  tliou  sleepest, 
Still  1  watch  the  shrouded  east. 
Near  thee,  near  thee,  my  wife  that  a'l  j  liveth, 
"  Lost "  is  no  word  for  such  a  love  is  mine  ; 
Love  from  her  past  to  me  a  present  ^-iveth, 

And  love  itself  doth  comfort,  makiig  pain  divine. 

Rest,  my  dear,  rest.     Fair  showeth 
That  which  was,  and  not  in  vain 
Sacred  have  I  kept,  (iod  knoweth. 
Love's  last  woids  atween  us  twain. 
"  Hold  by  our  past,  my  only  love,  my  lover ; 
Fall  not,  but  rise,  O  love,  by  loss  of  me  I " 
Boughs  from   our   garden,  white  with   bloom    hang 
over. 
Love,  now  the  children  slumber,    1  come   out   to 
thee. 


A  SNOW  MOUNTAIN. 

Can  T  make  white  enough  my  thought  for  thee, 

Or  wasii  my  words  in  light?     Thou  hast  no  mate 
To  sit  aloft  in  the  silence  silently 

And  twin  those  nuitchless  heights  undesecrate. 
Reverend  as  Lear,  when,  lorn  of  shelter,  he 

Stood  with  his  old  white  head,  surprised  at  fate  j 
Alone  as  (jaliltx),  when,  set  free, 

Before  tiie  stars  he  mused  disconsolate. 
Ay>  auti  remote,  as  the  dead  lords  of  song, 


PROMISING.  465 


Great  masters  who  have  made  us  what  we  are, 
For  thou  and  they  have  taught  us  how  to  long 

And  feel  a  sacred  want  of  the  fair  and  far : 
Reign,  and  keep  life  in  this  our  deep  desire — 
Our  only  greatness  is  that  we  aspire. 


SLEEP. 

(A  WOMAN   SPEAKS.) 

O  SLEKP,  we  are  beholden  to  thee,  sleep, 
Thou  bearest  angels  to  us  in  the  niglit, 
Saints   out  of  heaven  with   palms.     Seen  by  thy 
light 

Borrow  is  some  old  tale  that  goeth  not  deep  ; 

Love  is  a  pouting  child.     Once  I  did  sweep 
Through  space  with  thee,  and  lo,  a  dazzling  sight — 
Stars  !     Tliev  came  on,  I  felt  their  drawing  and 
might  ; 

And  some  had  dark  companions.     Once  (I  weep 

When  1  remenil)er  that)  we  sailed  the  tide. 

And  found  fair  isles,  where  no  hills  used  to  bide, 
And  met  there  my  lost  love,  who  said  to  me, 

That  'twas  a.  long  mistake:  he  had  not  died. 
Sleep,  m  tiie  world  to  come  how  strange  'twill  bo 
liever  to  want,  never  to  wish  for  thee  I 


PROMISING. 

(a  man  speaks.) 

Once,  a  new  wcrld,  the  sun-swart  marinere, 

Columbus,  promised,  and  was  sore  withstood, 
Ungraced,  unhelped,  unheard  for  many  a  year  ; 

But  let  at  last  to  make  his  promise  good. 

30 


4^6  LOVE. 

Promised  and  proniisinj?  I  go,  most  dear, 

To  better  uiy  dxill  heart  with  love's  sweet  feud, 
My  life  with  its  most  reverent  hope  and  fear, 

And  my  religion,  with  fair  gratitude. 
O  we  must  part ;  the  stars  for  me  contend, 

And  all  the  winds  that  blow  on  all  the  seas. 
Through  wonderful  waste  places  I  must  wend, 

And  with  a  jiromise  my  sad  soul  appease. 
Promise  then,  promise  much  of  far-off  blis?  ; 
But — all,  for  present  joy,  give  me  one  kiss. 


LOVE. 


Who  veileth  love  should  first  have  vanquished  fate. 
She  folded  up  the  dream  in  her  deep  heart, 
Her  fair  full  lii>s  were  silent  on  that  smart. 

Thick  fringed  eyes  did  on  the  grasses  wait. 

What  good  ?  one  el<M]uent  blush,  but  one,  and  straight 
The  meaning  of  a  life  was  known  ;  for  art 
Is  often  foiled  in  jjlaying  nature's  part, 

And  time  holds  nothing  long  inviolate. 

Earth's  buried  seed  springs  up — slowly,  or  fast : 

The  ring  came  home,  that  one  in  ages  past 
Elung  to  the  keeping  of  unfathomed  seas: 
And  golden  apples  on  the  mystic  trees 

V7ere  sought  and  found,  and  borne  away  at  last, 
Though,  watched  of  the  diviuo  iiesperidea. 


HENRY.  4f>7 


POEMS 

Written  on  the  Deaths  of  Three  Lovely  Children  tnho 
were  Uiken  from  their  Parents  within  a  month  of 
one  another. 


HENRY, 


AGED  EIGHT  YEARS. 

Yellow  leaves,  how  fast  they  flutter — woodland  hoi 
lows  thickly  strewing, 
Where  the  wan  October  sunbeams  scantly  in  tho 
mid-day  win, 
While  the  dim  gray  clouds  are  drifting,  and  in  sad- 
dened hues  imbuing 

All  without  and  all  within  I 

All  within  1  but  winds  of  autumn,  little  Henry,  round 
their  dwelling 
Did  not  load  your  father's  spirit  with  those  deep 
and  burdened  sighs  ; — 
Only  echoed  thoughts  of  sadness,  in  your  mother's 
bosom  swelling, 

Fast  as  tears  that  dim  her  eyes. 

Life  is  fraught  with  many  changes,  checked  with  sor- 
row and  mutation, 
But  no  grief  it  ever  lightened  such  a  truth  before 
to  know  : — 
1    behold  them — father,  mother — as  they  seemed  to 
contem])lation, 

Only  three  short  weeks  ago  ! 


468  HENRY. 


Saddened  for  the  morrow's  parting — up  the  stairs  at 
inidnigjht  stealing — 
As  with  cautious  foot  we  ghded  past  the  children'f- 
open  door, — 
"Conje  in  here,"  they  said,  the  lamphght  dimpled 
forms  at  last  revealing, 

'*  Kiss  them  in  their  sleep  once  more." 

You  were  sleeping,   little  Henry,  with  your  eyelids 
scarcely  closing, 
Two  sweet  faces  near  together,  with  tlieir  rounded 
arms  entwined  : — 
And  the  rose-bud  lips  were  moving,  as  if  stirred  in 
their  reposing 

By  the  movements  of  the  mind  1 

And  your  mother  smoothed  the  pillow,  and  her  sleep- 
ing treasures  numbered. 
Whispering   fondly — "He   is   dreaming" — as   you 
turned  upon  your  bed — 
And  your  father  stooped  to  kiss  you,  happy  dreamer, 
as  you  slumbered. 

With  his  hand  upon  your  head  I 

Did  he  know  the  true  deep  meaning  of  his  blessing  ? 
I^o  !  he  never 
Heard    afar    tlie    summons    uttered — "  Come     up 
hither  " — Never  knew 
How   the   awful  Angel   faces  kept  his   sleeping  boy 
forever, 

And  forever  in  their  view. 

Awful  Faces,   uuimpassioned,  silent  Presences  were 
by  us. 
Shrouding  wings — majestic  beings — hidden  by  this 
earthly  veil — 
Such  as  we  have  called  on,  saying,  "  Praise  the  Lord, 
O  Ananias, 

AzarUis,  ami  Misael  I 


HENRY.  4f>9 


But  "we  saw  not,  and  who  knoweth,  what  the  mis- 
sioned Spirits  taught  him, 
To  that  one  small  bed  drawn  nearer,  when  we  left 
him  to  their  will  ? 
While   he    slumbered,    who    can    answer   for    wliat 
dreams  they  may  have  brought  him. 
When  at  midnight  all  was  still  ? 

Father  1  Mother!  must  you  leave  him  on  his  bed,  bat 
not  to  slumber  ? 
Are  the  small  hands  meekly  folded  on  his  breast, 
but  not  to  pray  ? 
When  you  count  your  children  over,  must  you  tell  a 
different  number, 

Since  that  happier  yesterday  ? 

Father!    Mother!    weep  if  need    be,  since  this  is  a 

"  time  "  for  weeping. 
Comfort  comes   not   for   the  calling,   grief  is  never 

argued  down — 
Coldly  sounds  the  admonition,   "Why  lament?  in 

better  keeping 

Rests  the  child  than  in  your  own." 

"Truth   indeed!  but,   oh!    compassion!    Have   you 
sought  to  scan  my  sorrow  ?  " 
(Mother,  you  shall  meekly  ponder,  list'ning  to  that 
common  tale) 
**  Does  your  heart  repeat  its  echo,  or  by  fellow-feeling 
borrow 

Even  a  tone  that  might  avail  ? 

"  Might  avail  to  steal  it  from  me,  by  its  deep  heart- 
warm  affection  ? 
Might  perceive  by  strength  of  loving  how  the  fond 
words  to  combine  ? 
Surely  no  !  I  will  be  silent,  in  your  soul  is  no  reflectiou 
Of  the  care  that  burdens  mine  I ' 


47°  HENRY. 

When  the  winter  twilight  gathers,  Father,  and  your 
thoughts  shall  wander, 
Sitting  lonely  you  shall  blend  him  with  your  list- 
less reveries, 
Half  forgetful  what  division  holds  the  form  whereon 
you  ponder 

From  its  place  upon  your  knets — 

With  a  start  of  recollection,  with  a  half-reproachful 
wonder, 
Of  itself  the  heart  shall  question,  "  Art  Thou  then 
no  longer  here  ? 
Is  it  so,  my  little  Henry  ?     Are  we  set  so  far  asunder 
Who  wera  wont  to  be  so  near  ?  " 

While  the  fire-light  dimly  flickers,  and  the  lengthened 
shades  are  meeting,', 
To  itself  the  heart  shall  answer,  "  He  shall  come  to 
me  no  more  : 
I  shall  never  hear  his  footsteps  nor  the  child's  sweot 
voice  entreating 

For  admission  at  my  door." 

But  upon    yoxLT  fair,   fair   forehead,  no  regrets  nor 
griefs  are  dwelling, 
Neither  sorrow  nor  disquiet  do  the   peaceful  fea- 
tures know ; 
Kor  that  look,  whose  wistful  beauty  seemed  their  sad 
hearts  to  be  telling, 

"  Daylight  breaketh,  let  me  go  !  " 

Daylight  breaketh,  little  Henry  ;  in  its  beams  your 
soul  awaketh — 
What  though  night  should  close  around  us,  dim 
and  dreary  to  the  view — 
Though  our  souls  should  walk  in  darkness,  far  away 
that  morning  breaketh 

Into  endlets  day  for  you  I 


SAMUEL.  47' 


SAMUEL, 
AGED   NINE  YEARS. 

They  have  left  you,  little  Henry,  but  they  have  not 
left  you  lonely — 
Brothers'  hearts  so  knit  together  could  not,  might 
not  separate  dwell, 
Fain  to  seek  you   in  the  mansions  far  away — One 
lingered  only 

To  bid  those  behind  farewell  1 

Gentle  Boy  ! — Ilis  childlike  nature  in  most  guileless 
form  was  moulded. 
And  it  may  be  that  his  spirit  woke  in  glory  un- 
aware, 
Since  so  cahnly  he  resigned  it,  with  his  hands  still 
meekly  folded, 

Having  said  his  evening  prayer. 

Or — if  conscious  of  that  summons — "Speak,  O  Lord, 
Thy  servant  heareth  " — 
As  one  said,  whose  name  they  gave  him,  might  his 
walling  answer  be, 
"  Here  am  I  " — like  him  replying — "  At  Thy  gates  my 
soul  appeareth. 

For  behold  Thou  calledst  me  !  " 

A   deep  silence — utter  silence,  on   his  earthly  home 
descendetli : — 
Reading,  playing,  sleeping,    waking — he   is  gone, 
and  few  remain ! 
•'  O  the  loss  !  " — they  utter,  weeping — every  voice  its 
echo  lendeth — 

"  O  the  loss  1  "—But,  O  tUo  gain  I 


472  SAMUEL. 

On  that  tranquil  shore  his  spirit  was  vouchsafed  an 
early  landing, 
Lest  the  toils  of  crime  should  stain  it,  or  the  thrall 
of  guilt  control — 
Lest   that  "wickedness  should  alter  the  yet  simple 
understanding, 

Or  deceit  beguile  his  soul :  " 

"  Lay  not   up  on   earth    thy  treasure  " — they   have 
read  that  sentence  duly, 
Moth  and  rust  shall  fret  thy  riches— earthly  good 
hath  swift  decay — 
"Even  so,"    each  heart  replieth— "  As  for  me,  my 
riches  truly 

Make  them  wings  and  tlee  away  1 " 

**  O  my  riches  ! — O  my  (ihildren  1 — dearest  part  of  life 
and  being, 
Treasures  looked  to  for  the  solace  of  this  life's  de- 
clining years, — 
Were  our  voices  cold  to  hearing — or  our  faces  cold  to 
seeing, 

That  ye  left  us  to  our  tears  ?  " 

"  "We  inherit  conscious  silence,  ceasing  of  some  merry 
laughter, 
And  the  hush  of  two  sweet  voices — (healing  sounds 
for  spirits  bruised  !) 
Of  the  tread  of  joyous  footsteps  in  the  pathway  fol- 
lowing after, 

Of  two  names  no  longer  used  !  ' 

Question  for  them,   little  Sister,  in  your  sweet  and 
childish  fashion — 
Search  and  seek  tliem,  Baby  Brother,  with  your 
calm  and  asking  eyes — 
Dimpled  lips  that  fail  to  utter  fond  appeal  or  sad 
compassion, 

Mild  regret  or  dim  surprise  I 


SAMUEL.  473 


There  are  two  tall  trees  above  you,  by  the  high  east 
window  jiTowing, 
Undei-neath  them,  slumber  sweetly.  lapt  in  silence 
deej),  serene  ; 
Save,  when  pealinjx  iii  the  distance,  organ  notes  to- 
wards you  flowing 

Echo — with  a  pause  between  ! 

And  that  pause? — a  voice  ^^hall  fill  it — tones  that 
blessed  you  daily,  nightly. 
Well  belaved,  but  not  sufficing,  Sleepers,  to  awake 
you  now, 
Though  so  near  he  stand,  that  shadows  from  your 
trees  may  tremble  lightly 

On  his  book  and  on  his  brow  ! 

Sleep  then  ever  !    Neither  singing  of  sweet  birds  shall 
break  your  slumber, 
1^ either  fall  of  dew,  nor  sunshine,  dance  of  leaves, 
nor  drift  of  snow, 
Charm  those  dropt  lids  more  to  open,  nor  the  tran- 
quil bosoms  cumber 

With  one  care  for  things  below  1 

It  is  something,  the  assurance  that  you  ne'er  shall  feel 
like  sorrow. 
Weep  no  past  and  dread  no  future — know  not  sigh- 
ing, feel  not  pain — 
Nor  a  day  that  looketh  forward  to  a  mournfuller  to- 
morrow— 

"  Clouds  returning  after  rain  I  " 

No,  far  off,  the  daylight  breaketh,  in  its  beams  each 
soul  awaketh  : 
"What  though  clouds,"  they  sigh,  "  be  gathered 
dark  and  stormy  to  the  view, 
Though  the  light  our  eyes  forsaketh,  fresh  and  sweet 
behold  it  breaketh 

Into  endless  day  for  you  1  " 


474  KATIE,  AGED  FIVE   YEARS. 


KATIE,  AGED  FIVE  TEARS. 

(asleep  in  the  daytime.) 

All  rough  winds  are  hushed  and  silent,  golden  light 
the  meadow  steepeth, 
And  the  last  October  roses  daily  wax  more  pale  and 
fair  \ 
They  have  laid  a  gathered  blossom  on  the  breast  ol 
one  who  sleepeth 

With  a  sunbeam  on  her  hair. 

Calm,  and  draped  in  snowy  raiment  she  lies  still,  as 
one  that  dreameth, 
And  a  grave  sweet  smile  hath  parted  dimpled  lips 
that  may  not  speak  ; 
Slanting  down  that  narrow  sunbeam  like  a  ray  of 
glory  gleameth 

On  the  sainted  brow  and  cheek. 

There  is  silence !     They  who  watch  her,  speak  no 
word  of  grief  or  wailing, 
In  a  strange  unwonted  calmness  they  gaze  on  and 
cannot  cease, 
Though  the  pulse  of  life  beat  faintly,  thought  shrink 
back,  and  hope  be  failing, 

They,  like  Aaron,  "  hold  their  peace." 

While  they  gaze  on  her,  the  deep  bell  with  its  long 
slow  pauses  soundeth  ; 
Long   they   hearken — father — mother — love  has 
nothing  moi-e  to  say  : 
Beating  time  to  feet  of  Angels  leading  her  whore  lovo 
aboundeth 

Tolls  the  heavy  bell  this  day. 


KATIE,  AGED  FIVE  YEARS.  475 


Still  in  silence  to  its  tolling  they  count  over  all   L.er 
meetness 
To  lie  near  their  hearts  and  soothe  them  in  all  sor- 
rows and  all  fears ; 
Her  short  life  lies  spread  before  them,  but  they  can- 
not tell  her  sweetness, 

Easily  as  tells  her  years. 

Only  daughter— Ah  !    how  fondly  Thought  around 
that  lost  name  lingers, 
Oft  when  lone  your  mother  sitteth,  she  shall  weep 
and  droop  her  head, 
She  shall  mourn  her  baby-seamstress,  with  those  im- 
itative fingers, 

Drawing  out  her  aimless  thread. 

In  your  father's  Future  cometh  many  a  sad  uncheered 
to-morrow, 
But  in  sleep  shall  three  fair  faces  heavenly-calm  to- 
wards him  lean — 
Like  a  threefold  cord  shall  draw  him  through  the 
weariness  of  sorrow, 

Nearer  to  the  things  unseen. 

With  the  closing  of  your  eyelids  close  the  dreams  of 

expectation,  [their  way  : 

And  so  ends  the  fairest  chapter  in   the  records  of 

Theiefore — O  thou  God  most  holy — God  of  rest  and 

consolation, 

Be  Thou  near  to  them  this  day  ! 

Be  Thou  near,  when  they  shall  nightly,  by  the  bed 
of  infant  brothers. 
Hear  their  soft  and  gentle  breathing,  and  sliall  bless 
them  on  their  knees  ; 
And  shall  think  how  coldly  falleth  the  white  moon- 
light on  the  others, 

In  their  bed  beneath  the  trees. 


476  KATIE.  AGED  EIVE   YEARS. 


Be  Thou  near,  when  they,  they  only.,  bear  those  faces 
in  renienibraiice. 
And  the  number  of    their  children  strangers  ask 
them  witli  a  smile  ; 
And  when  other  childlike  faces  touch  them  by  the 
strong  resemblance 

To  those  turned  to  them  erewhile. 

Be  Thou  near,  each  chastened  Spirit  for  its  course 
and  conflict  nerving. 
Let  thy   voice  say,    "Father — mother  —  lo  I    thy 
treasures  live  above  ! 
Now  be  strong,  be  strong,  no   longer  cumbered  over 
much  with  serving 

At  the  shrine  of  human  love." 

Let  them  sleep  !  In  course  of  ages  e'en  the  Holy  House 

shall  crumble,  [its  decline, 

And  the  broad  and  stately  steeple  one  day  bend  to 

And  high  arches,  ancient  arches  bowed  and  decked  in 

clothing  humble, 

Creeping  moss  shall  round  them  twine. 

Ancient  arches,  old  and  hoary,  sunny  beams  shall 
glimmer  through  them. 
And  invest  them  with  a  beauty  we  Avould  fain  they 
should  not  share. 
And  the  moonlight  slanting  down  them,  the  white 
moonlight  shall  imbue  them 

With  a  sadness  dim  and  fair. 

Then  the  soft  green  moss  shall  wrap  you,  and  the 
world  shall  all  forget  you. 
Life,  and  stir,  and  toil,  and  tumult  unaAvares  shall 
pass  you  by  ; 
Generations  come  and  vanish  :  but  it  shall  not  giievc 
nor  fret  you, 

That  they  sin,  or  that  they  sigh. 


"     MARGARET  BY  THE  MERE  SIDE.  477 

And  the  world,  fjrowing  old  in  sinning,   shall  deny 
her  first  beginning, 
And  think  scorn  of  words  which  whisper  how  that 
all  iiinst  pass  awaj' ; 
Time's  arrest  and  intermission  shall  account  a  vain 
tradition. 

And  a  dream,  the  reckoning  day  ! 

Till  His  blast,  a  blast  of  terror,  shall  awake  in  shame 
and  sadness 
Faithless  millions  to  a  vision  of  the  failing  earth 
and  skies, 
And  more  sweet  than  song  of  Angels,  in  their  shout 
of  joy  and  gladness. 

Call  the  dead  in  Christ  to  rise  ! 

Then,  by  One  Man's  intercession,  standing  clear  from 
their  transgression. 
Father — mother — you  shall  meet  them  fairer  than 
they  were  before. 
And  have  joy  with  the  Redeemed,  joy  ear  hath  not 
heard — heart  dreaiiu'd. 

Ay  forever — evermore  1 


THE  TWO  MARGARETS. 


I. 

MARGARET    BY   THE   MERE   SIDE. 

JjYIXG  imbedded  in  the  green  champaign 
That  gives  no  shadow  to  thy  silvery  face, 

Open  to  all  the  heavens,  and  all  their  train. 

The  marshalled  clouds  that  cross  with  stately  pace, 

No  steadfast  hills  on  thee  reflected  rest, 

Nor  waver  with  the  dimpling  of  thy  breast. 


478  THE  TWO  MARGARETS. 

O,  silent  Mere !  about  whose  marches  spring 

Thick  bulrushes  to  hide  the  reed-bird's  nest  j 
Where  the  shy  ousel  dips  her  glossy  wing, 

■  And  balanced  in  the  water  takes  her  rest : 
While  under  bending  leaves,  all  gem-arrayed, 
Blue  dragon-flies  sit  panting  in  the  shade : 

Warm,  stilly  place,  the  sundew  loves  thee  well, 
And  the  greensward  comes  creeping  to  thy  brink, 

And  golden  saxifrage  and  pimpernel 

Lean  down  to  thee  their  perfumed  heads  to  drink  J 

And  heavy  with  the  weight  of  bees  doth  bend 

White  clover,  and  beneath  thy  wave  descend  : 

While  the  sweet  scent  of  bean-fields,  floated  wide 

On  a  long  eddy  of  the  lightsome  air 
Over  the  level  mead  to  thy  lone  side, 

Doth  lose  itself  among  thy  zephyrs  rare, 
With  wafts  from  hawthorn  bowers  and  new-cut  hay, 
And  blooming  orcliards  lying  far  away. 

Thou  hast  thy  Sabbaths,  when  a  deeper  cahn 
Descends  upon  thee,  quiet  Mere,  and  then 

There  is  a  sound  of  bells,  a  far-off  psalm 

Prom  gray  church  towers,  that  swims  across  (ho 
fen  ; 

And  the  light  sigh  where  grass  and  waters  meet, 

le  thy  meek  weloome  to  the  visit  sweet. 

Thou  hast  thy  lovers.     Thoiigh  the  angler's  rod 
Diiiij)le  thy  surface  seldom  ;  though  the  oar 

Fill  not  with  silvery  globes  thy  fringing  sod, 
JSor  send  long  ripi)ies  to  thy  lonely  shore ; 

Though  few,  as  in  a  glass,  have  cared  to  trace 

Ti.o  smile  of  nature  moving  on  thy  face  ; 


MARGARET  BY  THE  MERE  SIDE.  479 


Thou  hast  thy  lovers  truly.     'Mid  the  cold 
Of  northern  tarns  the  wild-fowl  dream  of  thee, 

And,  keeping  thee  in  mind,  their  winp;s  unfold, 
And  shape  their  course,  high  soaring,  till  tbey  see 

Down  in  the  world,  like  molten  silver,  rest 

Their  goal,  and  screamintr  plunge  them  in  thy  breast. 

Fair  Margaret,  who  sittest  all  day  lorj? 

On  the  gray  stone  beneath  the  sycamore, 
The  bowering  tree  with  branches  lithe  and  strong. 

The  only  one  to  grace  the  level  shore, 
Why  dost  thou  wait  ?  for  whom  with  patient  cheer 
Gaze  yet  so  wistfully  adown  the  Mere  ? 

Thou  canst  not  tell,  thou  dost  not  know,  alas  \ 
Long  watchings  leave  behind  them  little  trace  ; 

And  yet  how  sweetly  must  the  mornings  pass, 
That  bring  that  dreamy  calmness  to  thy  face! 

How  quickly  must  the  evenings  come  that  find 

Thee  still  regret  to  leave  the  Mere  behind  1 

Thy  cheek  is  resting  on  thy  hand  ;  thine  eyes 
Are  like  twin  violets  but  half  unclosed, 

And  quiet  as  the  deeps  in  yonder  skies. 
Never  more  peacefully  in  love  reposed 

A  mother's  gaze  upon  lier  offspring  dear, 

Than  thine  upon  the  long  far-stretching  Mero. 

Sweet  innocent  1     Thy  yellow  hair  floats  low 
In  rippling  undulations  on  thy  breast. 

Then  stealing  down  the  parted  love-locks  flow, 
Bathed  in  a  sunbeam  on  thy  knees  to  rest. 

And  touch  those  idle  hands  that  folded  lie, 

Having  from  sport  and  toil  a  like  immunity, 

Through  thy  life's  dream  with  what  a  touching  grace 

(Childhood  attends  thee,  nearly  woman  grown  \ 
ner  dimples  linger  yet  upon  thy  face, 


48'>  THE  TWO  MARGARETS. 

Like  dews  upon  a  lily  this  day  blown ; 
Thy  sighs  are  born  of  peace,  unruffled,  deep  ; 
So  the  babe  sighs  on  mother's  breast  asleep. 

It  sighs,  and  wakes, — but  thou  !  thy  dream  is  ail 
And  thou  wert  born  for  it,  and  it  for  thee  ; 

Morn  doth  not  take  thy  heart,  nor  even-fall 
Charm  out  its  sorrowful  fidelity. 

Nor  noon  begui  la  thee  from  the  pastoral  shorej 

And  thy  long  watch  beneath  the  sycamore. 

No,  down  the  Mere,  as  far  as  eye  can  see, 
Where  its  long  reaches  fado  into  the  sky, 

Thy  constant  gaze,  fair  child,  rests  lovingly  ; 
But  neither  thou  nor  any  can  descry 

Aught  but  the  grassy  banks,  the  rustling  sedgo, 

And  flocks  of  wild-fowl,  splashing  at  their  edge. 

And  yet  'tis  not  with  expectation  hushed 

That  thy  mute  rosy  mouth  doth  pouting  close: 

No  fluttering  hope  to  thy  young  heart  e'er  rushod, 
Nor  disappointment  troubled  its  repose  ; 

All  satisfied  with  gazing  evermore 

Along  the  sunny  Mere  and  reedy  shore. 

The  brooding  wren  flies  pertly  near  thy  seat. 
Thou  wilt  not  move  to  mark  her  glancing  winpj 

The  timid  sheep  browse  close  before  thy  feet. 
And  heedless  at  thy  side  do  thrushes  sing, 

So  long  amongst  them  thou  has  spent  thv  da^-^, 

Thev  know  that  harmless  hand  thou  wilt  not  raisOo 

.1: 
'.♦ 

Tlinu  wilt  not  lift  it  up — not  e'en  to  take 
The  foxglove  bells  that  flourish  in  tlie  shade, 

And  put  them  in  thy  bosom  ;   not  to  niake 
A  posy  of  wild  hyacinth  inlaid 

Like  bright  mosaic  in  tlie  mossy  grass. 

With  freckled  orchis  and  pale  sassafras. 


8     D. 

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MARGARET  BY  THE  MERE  SIDE.         481 

Gaze  on  ', — take  in  the  voices  of  the  Mere, 
The  break  of  shallow  water  at  thy  feet, 

Its  splash  among  long  reeds  and  grasses  sere, 
And  its  weird  sobbing, — hollow  music  meet 

For  ears  like  thine  ;  listen  and  take  thy  fill, 

And  dream  on  it  by  night,  when  all  is  still. 

Full  sixteen  years  have  slowly  passed  away, 
Young  Margaret,  since  thy  fond  mother  here 

Came  down,  a  six  month's  wife,  one  April  day. 
To  see  her  husband's  boat  go  down  the  Mere, 

And  track  its  course,  till,  lost  in  distance  blue. 

In  mellow  light  it  faded  from  her  view. 

It  faded,  and  she  never  saw  it  more  ; — 

Nor  any  human  eye  ; — oh,  grief  !  oh,  woe  1 

It  faded, — and  returned  not  to  the  shore  ; 
But  far  above  it  still  the  waters  flow — 

And  none  beheld  it  sink,  and  none  could  tell 

Where  coldly  slept  the  form  she  loved  so  well  I 

But  that  sad  day,  unknowing  of  her  fate, 

She  homeward  turn'd  her  still  reluctant  feet ; 

And  at  her  wheel  she  spun,  till  dark  and  late, 

The   evening  fell;  —  the  time  when   they   should 
meet ; — 

Till  the  stars  paled  that  at  deep  midnight  burned — 

And  morning  dawned,  and  he  was  not  returned. 

And  the  bright  sun   came  up,  —  she  thought  toe 
soon, — 

And  shed  his  ruddy  light  along  the  Msra  ; 
And  day  wore  on  too  quickly,  and  at  noon 

She  came  and  wept  beside  the  waters  clear. 
"  How  could  he  be  so  late  ?  " — and  then  hope  fled  j 
And  disappointment  darkened  into  dread. 

He  NEVER  came,  and  she  with  weepings  sore 
Peered  in  the  water-flags  uncea.singly  ; 

31 


482  THE  TWO  MARGARETS. 

Through  all  the  undulations  of  the  shore, 

Looking  for  that  which  most  she  feared  to  see. 
And  then  she  took  home  sorrow  to  her  heart, 
And  brooded  over  its  cold,  cruel  smart. 

And  after,  desolate  she  sat  alone 

And  mourned,  refusing  to  be  comforted, 

On  the  gray  stone,  the  moss-embroidered  stone. 
With  the  great  sycamore  above  her  head  j 

Till  after  manj'  days  a  broken  oar 

Hard  by  her  seat  was  drifted  to  the  shore. 

It  came, — a  token  of  his  fate, — the  whole, 

The  sum  of  her  misfortune  to  reveal  ; 
As  if  sent  up  in  pity  to  her  soul, 

The  tidings  of  her  widowhood  to  seal  j 
And  put  away  the  pining  hope  forlorn, 
That  made  her  grief  more  bitter  to  be  borne. 

And  she  was  patient ;  through  the  weary  day 

She  toiled  ;  though  none  was  there  her  work  to 
bless. 

And  did  not  wear  the  sullen  months  away, 
Nor  call  on  death  to  end  her  wretchedness, 

But  lest  the  grief  should  overflow  her  breast, 

She  toiled  as  heretofore,  and  would  not  rest. 

But,  her  work  done,  what  time  the  evening  star 
Rose  over  the  cool  water,  then  she  came 

To  the  gray  stone,  and  saw  its  light  from  far 

Drop  down  the  misty  Mere  white  lengths  of  flame, 

And  wondered  whether  there  might  be  the  place 

Where  the  soft  ripple  wandered  o'er  His  face. 

Unfortunate  !     In  solitude  forlorn 

She  dwelt,  and  thought  upon  her  husband's  grave. 
Till  wben  the  days  grew  short  a  child  was  born 


MARGARET  BY  THE  MERE  SIDE.  483 


To  the  dead  father  underneath  the  wave  ; 
And  it  brought  back  a  remnant  of  deUght, 
A  little  sunshine  to  its  mother's  sight ; 

A  little  Avonder  to  her  heart  grown  numb, 

And  a  sweet  yearning  pitiful  and  keen  : 
She  took  it  as  from  that  poor  father  come, 

Her  and  the  misery  to  stand  between  : 
Her  little  maiden  babe,  who  day  by  day 
Sucked  at  her  breast  and  charmed  her  woes  away.  \ 

But  years  flew  on  ;  the  child  was  still  the  same, 
Nor  human  language  she  had  learned  to  speak ; 

Her  lips  were  mute,  and  seasons  went  and  came. 
And  brought  fresh  beauty  to  her  tender  cheek  ; 

And  all  the  day  upon  the  sunny  shore 

She  sat  and  mused  beneath  the  sycamore. 

Strange  sympathy  1  she  watched  and  wearied  not,  \ 

Haply  unconscious  what  it  was  she  sought ;  [ 

Her  mother's  tale  she  easily  forgot, 

And  if  she  listened  no  warm  tears  it  brought; 

Though  surely  in  the  yearnings  of  her  heart 

The  unknown  voyager  must  have  had  his  part. 

Unknown  to  her  ;  like  all  she  saw  unknown,  [ 

All  sights  were  fresh  when  as  they  first  began,  j 

All  sounds  were  new  ;  each  murmur  and  each  tone 
And  cause  and  consequence  she  could  not  scan. 

Forgot  that  night  brought  darkness  in  its  train,  . 

Nor  reasoned  that  the  day  would  come  again.  \ 

I 
There  is  a  happiness  in  past  regret ; 

And  echoes  of  the  harshest  sound  are  sweet. 

The  mother's  soul  was  struck  with  grief,  and  yet,  • 

Repeated  in  her  child,  'twas  not  unmeet  \ 

That  echo-like  the  grief  a  tone  should  take  \ 

Painless,  but  ever  pensive  for  her  sake  ;  j 


484  THE  TWO  MARGARETS. 

For  her  dear  sake,  whose  patient  soul  was  Hnked 
By  ties  so  many  to  the  babe  unborn  ; 

Whose  hop«,  by  slow  degrees  become  extinct, 
Forevermore  had  left  her  child  forlorn, 

Yet  left  no  consciousness  of  want  or  woe. 

Nor  wonder  vague  that  these  things  should  be  so. 

Truly  her  joys  were  limited  and  few, 

But  they  sufficed  a  life  to  satisfy, 
That  neither  fret  nor  dim  foreboding  knew. 

But  breathed  the  air  in  a  great  harmony 
With  its  own  place  and  part,  and  was  at  one 
With  all  it  knew  of  earth  and  moon  and  sun. 

For  all  of  them  were  worked  into  the  dream, 
The  husky  sighs  of  wheat-fields  iu  it  wrought  j 

All  the  land-miles  belonged  to  it ;  the  stream 
That  fed  the  Mere  ran  through  it  like  a  thought. 

It  was  a  passion  of  peace,  and  loved  to  wait 

'Neath  boughs  with  fair  green  liglit  illuminate; 

To  wait  with  her  alone  3  always  alone  : 
For  any  that  drew  near  she  heeded  not, 

Wanting  them  little  as  the  lily  grown 
Apart  from  others,  in  a  shady  plot, 

Wants  fellow-lilies  of  like  fair  degree, 

In  her  still  glen  to  bear  her  company. 

Always  alone  :  and  yet,  there  was  a  child 

Who  loved  this  child,  and,  from  his  turret  towers, 

Across  the  lea  would  roam  to  where,  inisled 
And  fenced  in  rapturous  silence,  went  her  hours, 

And,  with  slow  footsteps  drawn  anear  the  place 

Where  mute  she  sat,  would  ponder  on  her  face, 

And  wonder  at  her  with  a  childish  awe. 
And  come  again  to  look,  and  yet  again. 

Till  the  sweet  rippling  of  the  Mere  would  draw 
His  longing  to  itself;   whilp  her  in  train 


MARGARET  B  Y  THE  MERE  SIDE.         485 

The  water-hen,  come  forth,  would  bring  her  brood 
From  slumbering  In  the  rushy  solitude  ; 

Or  to  their  young  would  curlews  call  and  clang 
Their    homeless    young   that    down    the    furrows 
creep  3 

Or  the  wind-hover  in  the  blue  would  hang, 
Still  as  a  rock  set  in  the  watery  deep. 

Then  from  her  presence  he  would  break  away, 

Unmarked,  ungreeted  yet,  from  day  to  day. 

But  older  grown,  the  Mere  he  haunted  yet, 
And  a  strange  joy  from  its  sweet  wildness  caught ; 

Whilst  careless  sat  alone  maid  Margaret, 
And  "  shut  the  gates  "  of  silence  on  her  thought. 

All  through  spring  mornings  gemmed  with  melted 
rime. 

All  through  hay-harvest  and  through  gleaning  time. 

0  pleasure  for  itself  that  boyhood  makes, 
O  happiness  to  roam  the  sighing  shore. 

Plough  up  Avith'  elfin  craft  the  water-flakes, 
And  track  the  nested  rail  with  cautious  oar ; 

Then  floating  lie  and  look  with  wonder  new 

Straight  up  in  the  great  dome  of  light  and  blue. 

O  pleasure  I  yet  they  took  him  from  the  wold. 
The  reedy  Mere,  and  all  his  pastime  there, 

The  place  where  he  was  born,  and  would  grow  old 
If  God  his  life  so  many  years  should  spare ; 

From  the  loved  haunts  of  childhood  and  the  plain 

And  pasture-lands  of  his  own  broad  domain. 

And  he  came  down  when  wheat  was  in  the  sheaf. 
And  with  her  fruit  the  apple-branch  bent  low* 

While  yet  in  August  glory  hung  the  leaf. 
And  flowerless  aftermath  began  to  grow  ; 

He  came  from  his  gray  turrets  to  the  shore, 

And  sought  the  maid  beneath  the  sycamore. 


He  sought  her,  not  because  her  tender  eyes 
V/ould  brighten  at  his  conung,  for  he  knew 

Full  seldom  any  thought  of  him  would  rise 

In  her  fair  breast  when  he  had  passed  from  view ; 

But  for  his  own  love's  sake,  that  unbeguiled 

Drew  him  in  spirit  to  the  silent  child. 

For  boyhood  in  its  better  hour  is  prone 
To  reverence  what  it  hath  not  understood  ; 

And  he  had  thought  some  heavenly  meaning  shone 
From  her  clear  eyes,  that  made  their  watchings 
good; 

While  a  great  peacefulness  of  shade  was  shed 

Like  oil  of  consecration  on  her  head. 

A  fishing  wallet  from  his  shoulder  slung, 

With  bounding  foot  he  reached  the  mossy  place, 

A  little  moment  gently  o'er  her  hung, 
Put  back  her  hair  and  looked  upon  her  face, 

Then  fain  from  that  deep  dream  to  wake  her  yet, 

He  "  Margaret !  "  low  murmnred,  "  Margaret  I 

"Look  at  me  once  before  I  leave  the  land. 

For  I  am  going, — going,  Margaret." 
And  then  she  sighed,  and,  lifting  up  her  hand, 

Laid  it  along  his  young  fresh  cheek,  and  set 
Upon  his  face  those  blue  twin -deeps,  her  eyes, 
And  moved  it  back  from  her  in  troubled  wise, 

Because  he  came  between  her  and  her  fate. 
The  Mere.     She  sighed  again  as  one  oppressed  ; 

The  waters,  shining  clear,  with  delicate 

Rpflections  wavered  on  her  blameless  breast ; 

And  through  the  branches  dropt,  like  flickerings  fair, 

And  played  upon  her  hands  and  on  her  hair. 

And  he  withdrawn  a  little  space  to  see, 

Murmured  in  tender  ruth  that  was  not  pain, 
'Farewell,  I  go  ;  but  sometimes  think  of  me, 


+ 


MARGARET  BY  THE  MERE  SIDE.         487 

Maid  Margaret ;  "  and  there  came  by  again 
A  whispering  in  the  reed-beds  and  the  sway 
Of  waters  :  then  he  turned  and  went  his  way.  \ 

And  wilt  thou  think  on  him  now  he  is  gone?  ' 

No  ;  thou  wilt  gaze  :  though  thy  young  eyes  grow  \ 

dim,  \ 

And  thy  soft  cheek  become  all  pale  and  wan,  '- 

Still  thou  wilt  gaze,  and  spend  no  thought  on  him ; 

There  is  no  sweetness  in  his  laugh  for  thee — 

No  beauty  in  his  fresh  heart's  gayety. 

But  wherefore  linger  in  deserted  haunts  ?  \ 

Why  of  the  past,  as  if  yet  present,  sing  ?  '. 

g 

The  yellow  iris  on  the  margin  flaunts,  ; 

With  hyacinth  the  banks  are  blue  in  spring,  ; 

And  under  dappled  clouds  the  lark  afloat 

Pours  all  the  April-tide  from  her  sweet  throat. 

But  Margaret — ah  !  thou  art  there  no  more, 

A  nd  thick  dank  moss  creeps  over  thy  gray  stone  \ 
Til  7  path  is  lost  that  skirted  the  low  shore, 

With  willow-grass  and  speedwell  overgrown  ; 
Thine  eye  has  closed  forever,  and  thine  ear 
Drinks  in  no  more  the  music  of  the  Mere. 

The  boy  shall  come — shall  come  again  in  spring, 
Well  pleased  that  pastoral  solitude  to  share, 

And  some  kind  offering  in  his  hand  will  bring 
To  cast  into  thy  lap,  O  maid  most  fair — 

Some  clasping  gem  about  thy  neck  to  rest. 

Or  heave  and  glimmer  on  thy  guileless  breast. 

And  he  shall  wonder  why  thou  art  not  here 

The  solitude  Avith  "  smiles  to  entertain," 
And  gaze  along  the  reaches  of  the  Mere  ; 

But  he  shall  never  see  thy  face  again— 
Shall  never  see  uijon  the  reedy  shore 
Maid  Margaret  beneath  her  sycamore. 


4S8  THE   TWO  MA  KG  A  RETS. 

II. 

MARGARET  IN  THE  XEBEC. 

["  Concerning  tliis  man  (Robert  Delacour),  little  further  is  known 
than  that  he  sei-ved  in  the  king's  army,  and  was  wounded  in  the  bat- 
tle of  Marston  Moor,  being  then  about  twenty-seven  years  of  age. 
After  the  battle  of  Nazeby,  findmg  himself  a  marked  man,  he  quitted 
the  country,  taking  with  him  the  child  whom  he  had  adopted  ;  and  he 
made  many  voyages  between  the  different  ports  of  the  Mediterranean 
and  Levant."] 

Resting  within  his  tent  at  turn  of  day, 
A  wailing  voice  his  scanty  sleep  beset : 

He  started  up — ^it  did  not  flee  away— 

'Twas  no  part  of  his  dream,  but  still  did  fret 

And  pine  into  his  heart,  "  Ah  me  !  ah  me  !  " 

Broken  with  heaving  sobs  right  mournfully. 

Then  he  arose,  and,  troubled  at  this  thing, 

All  wearily  toward  the  voice  he  went 
Over  the  down-trod  bracken  and  the  ling. 

Until  it  brought  him  to  a  soldier's  tent, 
Where,  with  the  tears  upon  her  face,  he  found 
A  little  maiden  weeping  on  the  ground  ; 

And  backward  in  the  tent  an  aged  crone 
Upbraided  her  full  harshly  more  and  more, 

But  sunk  her  chiding  to  an  undertone 

When  she  beheld  him  standing  at  the  door. 

And  calmed  her  voice,  and  dropped  Jier  lifted  hand, 

And  answered  him  Avith  accent  soft  and  bland. 

No,  the  young  child  was  none  of  hers,  she  said, 
But  she  had  found  her  where  the  ash  lay  white 

About  a  smouldering  tent  ;  her  infant  head 
All  shelterless,  she  through  the  dewy  night 

Had  slumbered  on  the  field, — ungentle  fate 

For  a  lone  child  so  soft  and  delicate. 


MARGARET  IM    THE  XEBEC.  4^9 

•'  And  I,"  quoth  she,  "  have  tended  her  with  care, 
And  thought  to  be  rewarded  of  her  kin, 

For  by  her  rich  attire  and  features  fair 
I  know  her  birtli  is  gentle  :  yet  within 

The  tent  unclaimed  she  doth  but  pine  and  weep, 

A  burden  I  would  fain  no  longer  keep." 

Still  while  she  spoke  the  little  creature  wept, 
Till  painful  pity  touched  him  for  the  flow 

(.>f  all  those  tears,  and  to  his  heart  there  crept 
A  yearning  as  of  fatherhood,  and  lo  ! 

Reaching  his  arms  to  her,  ''  My  sweet,"  quoth  he 

"  Dear  little  madam,  wilt  thou  come  with  me  ?  " 

Then  she  left  ofT  her  crying,  and  a  look 

Of  wistful  wonder  stole  into  her  eyes. 
The  sullen  frown  her  dimpled  face  forsook. 

She  let  him  take  her,  and  forgot  her  sighs, 
Contented  in  his  alien  arms  to  rest. 
And  lay  her  baby  head  upon  his  breast. 

Ah,  sure  a  stranger  trust  was  never  sought 

By  any  soldier  on  a  battle-plain. 
He  bi-ought  her  to  his  tent,  and  soothed  his  voice, 

Rough  with  command  ;  and  asked,  but  all  in  vain 
Her  story,  while  her  prattling  tongue  rang  sweet, 
She  playing,  as  one  at  home,  about  his  feet. 

Of  race,  of  country,  or  of  parentage. 

Her  lisping  accents  nothing  could  i;nfold ; — 

No  questioning  could  win  to  read  the  page 
Of  her  short  life  ; — she  left  her  tale  untold, 

And  home  and  kin  thus  early  to  forget, 

She  only  knew, — her  name  was — Margaret. 

Then  in  the  dusk  upon  his  arm  it  chanced 
That  night  that  suddenly  she  fell  asleep  ; 

And  he  looked  down  on  her  like  one  entranced, 
And  listened  to  her  breathing  still  and  deep, 


49°  THE  TWO  MARGARETS. 

As  if  a  little  child,  when  daylight  closed, 
With  half-shut  lids  had  ne'er  before  reposed. 

Softly  he  laid  her  down  from  off  his  arm, 
With  earnest  care  and  new-born  tenderness  : 

Her  infancy,  a  wonder-working  charm. 
Laid  hold  upon  his  love  ;  he  stayed  to  bless 

The  small  sweet  head,  then  Avent  he  forth  that  night 

And  sought  a  nurse  to  tend  tliis  new  delight. 

And  day  by  day  his  heart  she  wrought  upon, 
And  won  her  way  into  its  inmost  fold — 
.  A  heart  which,  but  for  lack  of  that  whereon 
To  fix  itself,  would  never  have  been  cold  ; 

And,  opening  wide,  now  let  her  come  to  dwell 

Within  its  strong  unguarded  citadel. 

She,  like  a  dream,  unlocked  the  hidden  springs 
Of  his  past  thoughts,  and  set  their  current  free 

To  talk  with  him  of  half-forgotten  things — 
The  pureness  and  the  peace  of  infancy, 

"  Thou  also,  thou,"  to  sigh,  "  wert  undefiled 

(O  God,  the  change  1)  once,  as  this  little  cliild." 

Tlie  baby-mistress  of  a  soldier's  heart, 
She  had  but  fi-iendlessness  to  stand  her  friend, 

And  her  own  orphanhood  to  plead  her  part, 
When  he,  a  Avayfarer,  did  pause,  and  bend. 

And  bear  with  him  the  starry  blossom  sweet 

Out  of  its  jeoi^ardy  from  tramj^ling  feet. 

A  gleam  of  light  upon  a  rainy  day, 
A  new-tied  knot  that  must  be  severed  soon. 

At  sunrise  once  before  his  tent  at  play, 
And  hurried  from  the  battle-field  at  noon. 

While  face  to  face  in  hostile  ranks  they  stood, 

Who  should  have  dwelt  in  peace  and  brotherhood. 


MARGARET  IN  THE  XEBEC.  49 » 

But  ere  the  fight,  when  higher  rose  the  sun, 

And  yet  were  distant  far  the  rebel  bands, 
She  heard  at  intervals  a  booming  gun, 

And  she  was  pleased,   and  laughing  clapped  her 
hands ; 
Till  he  came  in  with  troubled  look  and  tone, 
Who  chose  her  desolate  to  be  his  own. 

And  he  said,  "  Little  madam,  now  farewell. 
For  there  will  be  a»  battle  fought  ere  night. 

God  be  thy  shield,  for  He  alone  can  tell 

Which  way  may  fall  the  fortune  of  the  fight. 

To  fitter  hands  the  care  of  thee  pertain, 

My  dear,  if  we  two  never  meet  again," 

Then  he  gave  money  shortly  to  her  nurse, 
And  charged  her  straitly  to  depart  in  haste. 

And  leave  the  plain,  whereon  the  deadly  curse 
Of  war  should  light  with  ruin,  death,  and  waste,  j 

And  all  the  ills  that  must  its  presence  blight,  \ 

E'en  if  proud  victory  should  bless  the  right.  ' 

**  But  if  the  rebel  cause  should  prosper,  then 
It  Avere  not  good  among  the  hills  to  wend  ;  ; 

But  journey  through  to  Boston  in  the  fen,  \ 

And  wait  for  peace,  if  peace  our  Grod  shall  send  ;  !• 

And  if  my  life  is  spared,  I  will  essay," 

Quoth  he,  "  to  join  you  thei-e  as  best  I  may." 

So  then  he  kissed  the  child,  and  went  his  way ;  t 

But  many  troubles  rolled  above  his  head  ; 

The  sun  arose  on  many  an  evil  day,  | 

And  cruel  deeds  were  done,  and  tears  were  shed  j 

And  hope  was  lost,  and  loyal  hearts  were  fain  ( 

In  dust  to  hide, — ere  they  two  met  again.  \ 


So  passed  the  little  child  from  thought,  from  view— 
(The  snowdrop  blossoms,  and  then  is  not  there, 


492  THE  TWO  MARGARETS. 

Forgotten  till  men  welcome  it  anew), 

He  found  her  in  his  heavy  days  of  care, 
And  with  her  dimples  was  again  beguiled, 
As  on  her  nurse's  knee  she  sat  and  smiled. 

And  he  became  a  voyager  by  sea, 

And  took  the  child  to  share  his  wandering  state  j 
Since  from  his  native  land  compelled  to  flee, 

And  hopeless  to  avert  her  monarch's  fate  : 
For  all  was  lost  that  might  have  made  him  pause, 
And,  past  a  soldier's  help,  the  royal  cause. 

And  thus  rolled  on   long  days,   long  months  and 
years, 

And  Margaret  within  the  Xebec  sailed  ; 
The  lulling  Avind  made  music  in  her  ears. 

And  nothing  to  her  life's  completeness  failed. 
Her  pastime  'twas  to  see  the  dolphins  spring, 
And  wonderful  live  rainbows  glimmering. 

The  gay  sea-plants  familiar  were  to  her. 
As  daisies  to  the  children  of  the  land  ; 

Red  wavy  dulse  the  sunburnt  mariner 

Raised  from  its  bed  to  glisten  in  her  hand  ; 

The  vessel  and  the  sea  were  her  life's  stage — 

Her  house,  her  garden,  and  her  hermitage. 

Also  she  had  a  cabin  of  her  own. 

For  beauty  like  an  ellin  palace  bright,    . 

With  Venice  glass  adorned  and  crystal  stone, 
That  trembled  Avith  a  many-colored  light ; 

And  there  with  two  paged  ringdoves  she  did  play, 

And  feed  them  carefully  from  day  to  day. 

Her  bed  with  silken  curtains  was  enclosed, 
AVhite  as  the  snowy  rose  of  Guelderland  ; 

On  Turkish  piliows  her  young  head  reposed, 
And  love  had  gathered  with  a  careful  hand 


t 


MARGAKBir  IN  THE  XEBEC.  493 


Fair  playthings  to  the  little  maiden's  side, 
From  distant  ports,  and  cities  parted  wide. 

She  had  two  myrtle-plants  that  she  did  tend, 
And  think  all  trees  were  like  to  them  that  gi-ew : 

For  things  on  land  she  did  confuse  and  blend, 
And  chiefly  from  the  deck  the  lard  she  knew, 

And  in  her  heart  she  pitied  more  and  more 

The  steadfast  dwellers  on  the  changeless  shore. 

Green  fields  and  inland  meadows  faded  out 
Of  mind,  or  with  sea  images  were  linked  ; 

And  yet  she  had  her  childish  thoughts  about 
The  country  she  had  left — though  indistinct 

And  faint  as  mist  the  mountain-head  that  shrouds, 

Or  dim  through  distance  as  Magellan's  clouds. 

And  when  to  frame  a  forest  scene  she  tried, 
The  ever-present  sea  would  yet  intrude, 

And  all  her  towns  were  by  the  water's  side. 
It  murmured  in  all  moorland  solitude, 

Where  rocks  and  the  ribbed  sand  would  intervene. 

And  waves  would  edge  her  fancied  village  green  ; 

Because  her  heart  was  like  an  ocean  shell, 

That  holds  (men  say)  a  message  from  the  deep  ; 

And  yet  the  land  was  strong,  she  knew  its  spell, 
And  harbor  lights  could  draw  her  in  her  sle*^p  ; 

And  minster  chimes  from  pierced  towers  that  swim. 

Were  the  land-angels  making  God  a  hymn. 

So  she  grew  on,  the  idol  of  one  heart, 
And  the  delight  of  many — and  her  face, 

Thus  dwelling  chiefly  from  heV  sex  apart. 

Was  touched  with  a  most  deep  and  tender  graee- 

A  look  that  never  aught  but  nature  gave. 

A.rtless,  j^et  thoughtful  ;  innocent,  yet  grave. 


494  THE  TWO  MARGARETS. 

Strange  her  adornings  were,  and  strangely  blent: 
A  golden  net  confined  her  nut-brown  hair  ; 

Quaint  were  the  robes  that  divers  lands  had  lent, 
And  quaint  her  aged  nurse's  skill  and  care  \ 

Yet  did  they  well  on  the  sea-maiden  meet, 

Circle  her  neck,  and  grace  her  dimpled  feet. 

1  The  sailor  folk  were  glad  because  of  her, 

And  deemed  good  fortune  followed  in  her  wake  ; 
She  was  their  guardian  saint,  they  did  avei  — 
Prosjierous  winds  were  sent  them  for  her  sake  ; 
;  And  strange  rough  vows,  strange  prayers,  they  night- 

'  ly  made, 

While,  storm  or  calm,  she  slept,  in  naught  afraid. 

Clear  were  her  eyes,  that  daughter  of  the  sea, 
Sweet,  when  uplifted  to  her  aged  nurse, 

She  sat,  and  communed  Avhat  the  world  could  be  j 
And  rambling  stories  caused  her  to  rehearse 
(  How  Yule  was  kept,  how  maidens  tossed  the  liay, 

And  how  bells  rang  upon  a  wedding  day. 

But  they  grew  brighter  when  the  evening  star 
First  trembled  over  the  still  glowing  wave, 
I  That  bathed  in  ruddy  light,  mast,  sail,  and  spar  ; 

,  For  then,  reclined  in  rest  that  twilight  gave, 

'  AVith  him  who  served  for  father,  friend,  and  guide, 

i  She  sat  upon  the  deck  at  eventide. 

■i 

■i  Then  turned  toAvards  the  west,  that  on  her  hair 

;  And  her  young  cheek  shed  down  its  tender  glow, 

;;  lie  taught  her  many  things  with  earnest  care 

I  That  he    thought   fitting  a    young   maid    should 

I  know, 

I  Told  of  the  good  deeds  of  the  worthy  dead, 

j  And  prayers  devout,  by  faithful  martyrs  said 

I  And  many  psalms  he  caused  her  to  repeat 

'  And  sing  them,  at  his  knees  reclined  the  wliiie, 


MARGARET  IN  THE  XEBEC.  495 


And  spoke  with  her  in  all  things  good  and  meet, 

And  told  the  story  of  her  native  isle, 
Till  at  the  end  he  made  her  tears  to  flow, 
Rehearsing  of  his  royal  master's  woe. 

And  of  the  stars  he  taught  her,  and  their  names, 
And  how  the  chartless  mariner  they  guide  ; 

Of  quivering  light  that  in  the  zenith  flames, 
Of  monsters  in  the  deep  sea  caves  that  hide  ; 

Then  changed  the  theme  to  fairy  records  wild, 

Enchanted  moor,  elf  dame,  or  changeling  child. 

To  her  the  Eastern  lands  their  strangeness  spread. 
The  dark-faced  Arab  in  his  long  blue  gown, 

The  camel  thrusting  down  a  snake-like  head  . 

To  browse  on  thorns  outside  a  Availed  white  town, 

"Where  palmy  clusters  rank  by  rank  upright 

Float  as  in  quivering  lakes  of  ribbed  light. 

And  when  the  ship  sat  like  a  broad-winged  bird 
Becalmed,  lo,  lions  answered  in  the  night 

Their  fellows,  all  the  hollow  dark  was  stirred 
To  echo  on  that  tremulous  thunder's  flight, 

Dyi^ig  in  weird  faint  moans  3 — till,  look !  the  sun 

A  nd  night,  and  all  the  things  of  night,  were  done. 

And  they,  toward  the  waste  as  morning  brake. 
Turned,  where,  inisled  in  his  green  watered  land, 

The  Lybian  Zeus  lay  couched  of  old,  and  spake, 
Hemmed  in  with  leagues  of  furrow-faced  sand — 

Then  saw  the  moon  (like  Joseph's  golden  cup 

Come  back)  behind  some  ruined  roof  swim  up. 

But  blooming  childhood  will  not  always  last, 
And  storms  will  rise  e'en  on  the  tideless  sea; 

ILis  guardian  love  took  fright,  she  grew  so  fast 
And  he  began  to  think  how  sad  'twould  be 

If  he  shoul'd  die,  and  pirate  hordes  should  get 

By  sword  or  shipwreck  his  fair  Margaret. 


49(>  THE  TWO  MARGARETS. 


It  was  a  sudden  thought ;  but  he  gave  way, 
For  it  assailed  him  with  unwonted  force  ; 

And,  with  no  more  than  ojie  short  week's  delay, 
For  English  shores  he  shaped  the  vessel's  course  ; 

And  ten  years  absent  saw  her  landed  now, 

With  thirteen  summers  on  her  maiden  brow. 

And  so  he  journeyed  with  her,  far  inland, 
Down  quiet  lanes,  by  hedges  gemmed  with  dew, 

Where  wonders  met  her  eye  on  every  hand. 
And  all  was  beautiful  and  strange  and  new — 

All,  from  the  forest  trees  in  stately  ranks, 

To  yellow  cowslips  trembling  on  the  banks. 

All  new — the  long-drawn  slope  of  evening  shades 
The  sweet  solemnities  of  waxing  light, 

The  white-haired  boys,  the  blushing  rustic  maids. 
The  ruddy  gleam  through  cottage  casements  l)riglit 

The  green  of  pastures,  bloom  of  garden  nooks, 

And  endless  bubbling  of  the  water-brooks. 

So  far  he  took  them  on  through  this  gre(Mi  l.uul, 
The  maiden  and  her  nurse,  till  journeying 

They  saw  at  last  a  peaceful  city  stand 

On  a  steep  mount,  and  heard  its  clear  bells  ring. 

Iligli  were  the  towers  and  rich  with  ancient  state. 

In  its  old  wall  enclosed  and  massivfc  gate. 

There  dwelt  a  worthy  matron  whom  he  knew, 
To  whom  in  time  of  Avar  he  gave  good  aid, 

Shielding  her  household  from  the  plundering  crew 
When  neither  law  could  bind  ntr  worth  persuado 

And  to  her  house  he  brought  his  care  and  pride, 

Aweary  with  the  way  and  sleepy-eyed. 

And  he,  the  man  Avhoni  she  was  fain  to  serve. 
Delayed  not  shortly  his  request  to  make, 

Wliich  was.  if  luiglit  of  her  he  did  deserve. 


MARGARET  IN  THE  XEBEC.  497 


To  take  the  maid,  and  rear  her  for  his  sake. 
To  guard  her  youth,  and  let  her  breeding  be 
In  womanly  reserve  and  modesty. 

And  that  same  night  into  the  house  he  brought 

The  costly  fruits  of  all  his  voyages — 
Rich  Indian  gems  of  wandering  craftsmen  wrought, 

Long  ropes  of  pearls  from  Persian  jjalaces, 
Witli  ingots  pure  and  coins  of  Venice  mould, 
And  silver  bars  and  bags  of  Spanish  gold ; 

And  costly  merchandise  of  far-olT  lands, 

And  golden  stuffs  and  shawls  of  Eastern  dye, 

He  gave  them  over  to  the  matron's  hands. 
With  jewelled  gauds,  and  toys  of  ivory, 

To  be  her  dower  on  whom  his  love  was  set, — 

Ilis  dearest  clnld,  fair  Madam  Margaret. 

Then  he  entreated,  that  if  he  should  die. 

She  would  not  cease  her  guardian  mission  mild. 

Awhile,  as  undecided,  lingered  nigh, 
Beside  the  pillow  of  the  sleeping  child, 

Severed  one  wandering  lock  of  wavy  hair, 

Took  horse  that  night,  and  left  her  unaware. 

And  it  was  long  before  he  came  again— 
So  long  that  Margaret  was  woman  grown  ; 

And  oft  she  Avished  for  his  return  in  vain, 
Calling  him  softly  in  an  undertone  ; 

Repeating  words  that  he  had  said  the  while, 

And  striving  to  recall  his  look  and  smile. 

If  she  had  known— oh,  if  she  could  have  known — 
The  toils,  the  hardships  of  those  absent  years — 

How  bitter  thraldom  forced  the  unwilling  groan — 
How  slavery  wrung  out  subduing  tears, 

Not  calmly  had  she  passed  her  hours  away, 

Chiding  half  pettishly  the  long  delay. 

32 


49^  THE  TWO  MARGARETS. 


lint  she  was  spared.     She  knew  no  sense  of  harm. 
While  the  red  flames  ascended  from  the  deck  ; 

Saw  not  the  pirate  band  the  crew  disarm, 

Mourned  not  the  floating  spars,  the  smoking  wreck. 

She  did  not  dream,  and  there  was  none  to  tell 

That  fetters  bound  the  hands  she  loved  so  well. 

Sweet  Margaret — withdrawn  from  human  view, 
She  spent  long  hours  beneath  the  cedar  shade, 

The  stately  trees  that  in  the  garden  grew, 
And,  overtwined,  a  towering  shelter  made  ; 

She  mused  among  the  flowers,  and  birds,  and  bees, 

In  winding  walks,  and  bowering  canopies  ; 

Or  wandered  slowly  through  the  ancient  rooms. 
Where  oriel  windows  shed  their  rainbow  gleams  ; 

And  tapestried  hangings,  wrought  in  Flemish  looms 
Displayed  the  story  of  King  Pharaoh's  dreams  ; 

And,  come  at  noon  because  the  well  was  deep, 

Beautiful  Rachel  leading  down  her  sheep. 

At  last  she  reached  the  bloom  of  womanhood, 

After  five  summers  spent  in  growing  fair  ; 
Her  face  betokened  all  things  dear  and  good. 
The  light  of  somewhat  yet  to  come  was  there 
Asleep,  and  waiting  for  the  opening  day. 
When   childish  thoughts,  like  flowers,   would   drift 
away. 

O  !  we  are  far  too  happy  while  they  last ; 

We  have    our   good   things   first,   and   they   cost 
naught ; 
Then  the  new  splendor  comes  unfathomed,  vast, 

A  costly  trouble,  ay,  a  sumptuous  thought. 
And  will  not  wait,  and  cannot  be  possessed. 
Though  infinite  yearnings  fold  it  to  the  breast. 

And  time,  that  seemed  so  long,  is  fleeting  by. 
And  life  is  more  than  life  ;  love  more  than  love  ; 


MARGARET  IN  THE  XEBEC.  499 

"We  have  not  found  the  whole — and  we  must  die — 

And  still  the  unclasped  glory  floats  above. 
The  inmost  and  the  utmost  faint  from  sight, 
Forever  secret  in  their  veil  of  light. 

Be  not  too  hasty  in  your  flow,  you  rhymes, 

For  Margaret  is  in  her  garden  bower ; 
Delay  to  ring,  you  soft  cathedral  chimes, 

And  tell  not  out  too  soon  the  noontide  hour ; 
For  one  draws  nearer  to  your  ancient  town, 
On  the  green  mount  down  settled  like  a  crown. 

He  journeyed  on,  and,  as  he  neared  the  gate, 
He  met  with  one  to  whom  he  named  the  maid, 

Inquiring  of  her  welfare,  and  her  state, 

And  of  the  matron  in  whose  house  she  stayed. 

"  The  maiden  dwelt  there  yet,"  the  townsman  said  ; 

'*  But,  for  the  ancient  lady, — she  was  dead." 

He  further  said,  she  was  but  little  known, 

Altnough  reputed  to  be  very  fair. 
And  little  seen  (so  much  she  dwelt  alone) 

But  with  her  nurse  at  stated  morning  prayer ; 
So  seldom  passed  her  sheltering  garden  wall. 
Or  left  the  gate  at  quiet  evening  fall. 

Flow  softly,  rhymes — his  hand  is  on  the  door  ; 

Ring  out,  ye  noonday  bells,  his  welcoming — 
"  He  went  out  rich,  but  he  returneth  poor  ;  " 

And  strong — now  something  bowed  with  suffering ; 
And  on  his  brow  are  traced  long  furrowed  lines, 
Earned  in  the  fight  with  pirate  Algerines. 

Her  aged  nurse  comes  hobbling  at  his  call  ; 

Lifts  up  her  withered  hand  in  dull  surprise, 
And,  tottering,  leads  him  through  the  i)illared  hall ; 

"  What  1  come  at  last  to  bless  my  lady's  eyes  1 


qoo  THE  TWO  MARGARETS. 


3 


Dear  heart,   sweet  heart,   she's    grown  a  hkesomo 

maid — 
Go,  seek  her  where  she  sitteth  in  the  shade." 

'"/he  noonday  chime  had  ceased — she  did  not  know 
Who  watched  her,   while  her  ringdoves  fluttered 
near : 

While,  under  the  green  boughs,  in  accents  low 
She  sang  unto  herself.     She  did  not  hear 

His  footstep  till  she  turned,  then  rose  to  meet 

Her  guest  with  guileless  blush  and  wonder  sweet. 

But  soon  she  knew  him,  came  with  quickened  pace. 
And  put  her  gentle  hands  about  his  neck  ; 

And  leaned  her  fair  cheek  to  his  sunburned  face, 
As  long  ago  upon  the  vessel's  deck  : 

As  long  ago  she  did  in  twilight  deep, 

When  heaving  waters  lulled  her  infant  sleep. 

So  then  he  kissed  her,  as  men  kiss  their  own, 
And,  proudly  parting  her  unbraided  hair. 

He  said  :  "  I  did  not  think  to  see  thee  grown 
So  fair  a  woman," — but  a  touch  of  care 

The  deep-toned  voice  through  its  caressing  kept, 

And,  hearing  it,  she  turned  away  and  wept. 

Wept, — for  an  impress  on  the  face  she  viewed — 
The  stamp  of  feelings  she  remembered  not ; 

His  voice  was  calmer  now,  but  more  subdued, 
Not  like  the  voice  long  loved  and  unforgot  I 

She  felt  strange  sorrow  and  delightful  pain — 

<3rief  for  the  change,  joy  that  he  came  again. 

O  pleasant  days,  that  followed  his  return, 
That  made  his  captive  years  pass  out  of  mind  ; 

If  life  had  yet  new  pains  for  him  to  learn, 

Not  in  the  maid's  clear  eyes  he  saw  it  shrined  ; 

And  three  full  weeks  he  stayed  with  her,  content 

To  find  her  beautiful  and  innocent. 


MARGARET  IN  THE  XEBEC.  <  it 


It  was  all  one  in  his  contented  "Ight 

As  though  she  were  a  child,  till  suddenly, 

Waked  of  the  chimes  in  the  dead  time  of  the  night 
He  fell  to  thinking  how  the  urgency 

Of  Fate  had  dealt  with  liim,  and  could  but  sigh 

For  those  best  things  wherein  she  passed  him  by. 

Down  the  long  river  of  life  how,  cast  adrift. 
She  urged  him  on,  still  on,  to  sink  or  swim  ; 

And  all  at  once,  as  if  a  veil  did  liftj 

In  the  dead  time  of  the  night,  and  bare  to  him 

The  want  in  his  deep  soul,  he  looked,  Avas  dumb, 

And  knew  himself,  and  knew  his  time  was  come. 

In  the  dead  time  of  the  night  his  soul  did  sound 
The  dark  sea  of  a  trouble  unforeseen, 

For  that  one  sweet  that  to  his  life  was  bound 
Had  turned  into  a  want — a  misery  keen  : 

Was  born,  was  grown,  and  wounded  sorely  criod 

All  'twixt  the  midnight  and  the  morning  tide. 

He  was  a  brave  man,  and  he  took  this  thing 

And  cast  it  from  him  with  a  man's  strong  hand  ^ 

And  that  next  morn,  with  no  sweet  altering 
Of  mien,  beside  the  maid  he  took  his  stand, 

And  copied  his  past  self  till  ebbing  day 

Paled  its  deep  western  blush,  and  died  away. 

And  then  he  told  her  that  he  must  depart 
Upon  the  morrow,  with  the  earliest  light ; 

And  it  displeased  and  pained  her  at  the  heart, 
And  she  went  out  to  hide  her  from  his  sight 

Aneath  the  cedar  trees,  where  dusk  was  deep, 

And  be  apart  from  him  awhile  to  weep 

And  to  lament,  till,  suddenly  aware 

Of  steps,  she  started  up  as  fain  to  flee, 
And  met  him  in  the  moonlight  pacing  there. 


S02  THE  TWO  MARGARETS, 


Who  questioned  with  her  why  her  tears  might  be, 
Till  she  did  answer  him,  all  red  for  shame, 
'•  Kind  sir,  I  weep — the  wanting  of  a  name." 

"A  name  I  "  quoth  he,  and  sighed.     "  I  never  kne'o-- 
Thy  father's  name  ;  but  many  a  stalwart  youth 

Would  give  thee  his,  dear  child,  and  his  love  too, 
And  count  himself  a  happy  man  forsooth. 

Is  there  none  here  who  thy  kind  thought  hath  won  ? ' 

But  she  did  falter,  and  made  answer,  "  None." 

Then,  as  in  father-like  and  kindly  mood, 

He  said,  "Dear  daughter,  it  would  please  me  well 

To  see  thee  wed  ;  for  know  it  is  not  good 
That  a  fair  woman  thus  alone  should  dwell." 

She  said,  "  I  am  content  it  should  be  so, 

If  when  you  journey  I  may  with  you  go." 

This  when  he  heard,  he  thought,  right  sick  at  heart 
Must  I  withstand  myself,  and  also  thee  ? 

Thou,  also  thou  !  must  nobly  do  thy  part ; 

That  honor  leads  thee  on  which  holds  back  me. 

No,  thou  sweet  woman  ;  by  love's  great  increase, 

I  will  reject  thee  for  thy  truer  peace. 

Then  said  he,  "  Lady  !— look  upon  ray  face  ; 

Consider  well  this  scar  upon  my  brow  ; 
I  have  had  all  misfortune  but  disgrace  ; 

I  do  not  look  for  marriage  blessings  now. 
Be  not  thy  gratitude  deceived.     I  know 
Thou  think'st  it  is  thy  duty — I  will  go  I 

"I  read  thy  meaning,  and  I  go  from  hence, 
Skilled  in  the  reason  ;  though  my  heart  be  rude, 

I  will  not  wrong  thy  gentle  innocence, 
Nor  take  advantage  of  thy  gratitude, 

But  think,  while  yet  the  light  these  eyes  shall  bless. 

The  luoro  for  thee — of  woxiiau's  aobleneas." 


MARGA RET  BY  THE  XEBEC.  5 03 

Faultless  and  fair,  all  in  the  moony  light, 

As  one  ashamed,  she  looked  upon  the  ground, 

And  her  white  raiment  glistened  in  his  sight. 
And  hark !  the  vesper  chimes  began  to  sound, 

Then  lower  yet  she  drooped  her  young,  pure  cheek, 

And  still  was  she  ashamed,  and  could  not  speak. 

A  swarm  of  bells  from  that  old  tower  o'erhead. 

They  sent  their  message  sifting  through  the  boughs 

Of  cedars ;  when  they  ceased  his  lady  said, 

"  Pray  you  forgive  me,"  and  her  lovely  brows 

She  lifted,  standing  in  her  moonlit  place. 

And  one  short  moment  looked  him  in  the  face. 

Then  straight  he  cried,  "  O  sweetheart,  think  all  one 
As  no  word  yet  were  said  between  us  twain. 

And  know  thou  that  in  this  I  yield  to  none — 
I  love  thee,  sweetheart,  love  thee  I  "  so  full  fain, 

While  she  did  leave  to  silence  all  her  part, 

Ee  took  the  gleaming  whiteness  to  his  heart — 

The  white-robed  maiden  with  the  warm  white  throat, 
The  sweet  white  brow,  and  locks  of  umber  flow, 

Whose  murmuring  voice  was  soft  as  rock-dove's  note, 
Entreating  him,  and  saying,  "  Do  not  go  !  " 

"  I  will  not,  sweetheart ;  nay,  not  now,"  quoth  he, 

"  By  faith  and  troth,  I  think  thou  art  for  me  1 " 

And  so  she  won  a  name  that  eventide, 
Which  he  gave  gladly,  but  would  ne'er  bespeak, 
And  she  became  the  rough  sea-captain's  bride. 
Matching  her  dimples  to  his  sunburnt  cheek  ; 
And  chasing  from  his  voice  the  touch  of  care. 
That  made  her  weep  when  first  she  heard  it  there. 

One  year  there  was,  fulfilled  of  happiness. 

But  0 1  it  went  so  fast,  too  fast  away. 
Then  came  that  trouble  which  full  oft  doth  bless— 


S04  THE  TWO  MARGARETS. 

It  was  the  evening  of  a  sultry  day, 
TJiere  was  no  wind  the  thread-hung  flowers  to  stir, 
Or  float  abroad  the  fihny  gossamer. 

Toward  the  trees  his  steps  the  mariner  bent, 
Pacing  the  grassy  walks  with  restless  feet : 

And  he  recalled,  and  pondered  as  he  went, 
All  her  most  duteous  love  and  converse  sweet. 

Till  summer  darkness  settled  deep  and  dim. 

And  dew  from  bending  leaves  dropt  down  on  him. 

The  flowers  sent  forth  their  nightly  odors  faint — 

Thick  leaves  shut  out  the  starlight  overhead  j 
While  he  told  over,  as  by  strong  constraint 
Drawn  on,  her  childish  life  on  shipboard  led. 
And  beauteous  youth,  since  first  low  kneeling  there, 
With  folded  hands  she  lisped  her  evening  prayer. 

Then  he  remembered  how,  beneath  the  shade, 
She  wooed  him  to  her  with  her  lovely  words. 

While  flowers    were    closing,   leaves    in    moonlight 
played. 
And  in  dark  nooks  withdrew  the  silent  birds. 

So  pondered  he  that  night  in  twilight  din}, 

While  dew  from  bending  leaves  dropt  down  on  him. 

The  flowers  sent  forth  their  nightly  odors  faint — 
When,  in  the  darkness  waiting,  he  saw  one 

To  whom  he  said — "  How  fareth  my  sweet  saint?  " 
Who  answered — "  She  hatii  borne  to  you  a  son  ;" 

Then,  turning,  left  him, — and  the  father  said, 

"  God  rain  down  blessings  on  his  welcome  head  I  " 

But,  Margaret ! — she  never  saw  the  child, 

Nor  heard  about  her  bed  love's  mournful  wails  ; 

But  to  the  last,  with  ocean  dreams  beguiled, 
Murmured  of  troubled  seas  and  swelling  sails — 

Of  weary  voyages,  and  rocks  unseen, 

And  distant  hills  in  sight,  all  calm  and  green.  .  .  , 


MARGARET  IN  THE  XEBEC.  505 

Woe  and  alas  I — the  times  of  sorrow  come, 
And  makes  us  doubt  if  we  were  ever  glad  1 

So  utterly  that  inner  voice  is  dumb, 

Whose  music  through  our  happy  days  we  had  1 

So,  at  the  touch  of  grief,  without  our  will, 

The  sweet  voice  drops  from  us,  and  all  is  still. 

Woe  and  alas  !  for  the  sea-captain's  wife— 
That  Margaret  who  in  the  Xebec  played — 

8he  spent  upon  his  knee  her  baby  life  ; 

Her  slumbering  head  upon  his  breast  she  laido 

How  shall  he  learn  alone  his  years  to  pass  ? 

How  in  the  empty  house  ? — woe  and  alas  1 

She  died,  and  in  the  aisle,  the  minster  aisle. 

They  made  her  grave  ;  and  there,  with  fond  intent, 

Her  husband  raised,  his  sorrow  to  beguile, 
A  very  fair  and  stately  monument : 

Her  tomb  (the  careless  vergers  show  it  yet), 

The  mariner's  wife,  his  love,  his  Margaret. 

A  woman's  figure,  with  the  eyelids  closed, 
The  quiet  head  declined  in  slumber  sweet ; 

Upon  an  anchor  one  fair  hand  reposed, 
And  a  long  ensign  folded  at  her  feet, 

And  carved  upon  the  bordering  of  her  vest 

The  motto  of  her  house — "  j^c  piBtth  rjst " 

There  is  an  ancient  window  richly  fraught 
And  fretted  with  all  hues  most  rich,  most  bright;, 

And  in  its  upper  tracery  enwronght 

An  olive-branch  and  dove  wide-winged  and  white, 

An  emblem  meet  for  her,  the  tender  dove, 

Her  heavenly  peace,  her  duteous  earthly  love. 

Amid  heraldic  sliields  and  banners  set, 

In  twisted  knots  and  wildly-tangled  bands. 

Crimson  and  green,  and  gold  and  violet. 
Fall  softly  on  the  snowy  sculptured  hands  ; 

And,  when  the  sunshine  comes,  full  sweetly  rest 

The  dove  and  olive-branch  upon  her  breast. 


5o6         THE  SHEPHERD  LADY. 


THE  SHEPHERD  LADY. 

I. 

Who  pipes  upon  the  long  green  hill, 

Where  meadow  grass  is  deep  ? 
The  white  lamb  bleats  but  followeth  on — 

Follow  the  clean  white  sheep. 
The  dear  white  lady  in  yon  high  tower, 

She  hearkeneth  in  her  sleep. 

All  in  long  grass  the  piper  stands. 

Goodly  and  grave  is  he  ; 
Outside  the  tower,  at  dawn  of  day, 

The  notes  of  his  pipe  ring  free. 
A  thought  from  his  heart  doth  reach  to  hers; 

"  Come  down,  O  lady  I  to  me." 

She  lifts  her  head,  she  dons  her  gown : 

Ah  !  the  lady  is  fair  ; 
She  ties  the  girdle  on  her  waist, 

And  binds  her  flaxen  hair. 
And  down  she  stealeth,  down  and  down, 

Down  the  turret  stair. 

Behold  him  !     With  the  flock  he  wons 

Along  yon  grassy  lea. 
"  My  shepherd  lord,  my  shepherd  lovo, 

What  wilt  thou,  then,  with  me  ? 
My  heart  is  gone  out  of  my  breast, 

And  followeth  on  to  thee." 

II. 

"  The  white  lambs  feed  in  tender  grass : 

With  them  and  thee  to  bide, 
How  good  it  were,"  she  saith  at  noon  ; 


ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS.  507 

**  Albeit  the  meads  are  wide. 
Oh  !  well  is  me,"  she  saith  when  day- 
Draws  on  to  eventide. 

Hark  I  hark  !  the  shepherd's  voice.     Oh,  sweet  I 

Her  tears  drop  down  like  rain. 
"  Take  now  tliis  crook,  my  chosen,  my  fere, 

And  tend  the  flock  full  fain  ; 
Feed  them,  O  lady,  and  lose  not  one. 

Till  I  shall  come  again." 

Right  soft  her  speech :  "  My  will  is  thine, 

And  my  reward  thy  grace  ! " 
Gone  are  his  footsteps  over  the  hill, 

Withdrawn  his  goodly  face  ; 
The  mournful  dusk  begins  to  gather, 

The  daylight  wanes  apace. 

III. 
On  sunny  slopes,  ah  !  long  the  lady 

Feedeth  her  flock  at  noon  ; 
She  leads  it  down  to  drink  at  eve 

Where  the  small  rivulets  croon. 
All  night  her  locks  are  wet  with  dew 

Her  eyes  outwatch  the  moon. 

13eyond  the  hills  her  voice  is  heard, 

She  sings  when  life  doth  wane  : 
"  My  longing  heart  is  full  of  love, 

Nor  shall  my  watch  be  vain. 
My  shepherd  lord,  I  see  him  not, 

But  he  will  come  again." 


ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS. 

And  can  this  be  my  own  world  ? 

'Tis  all  gold  and  snow, 
Save  where  the  scarlet  waves  are  hurled 


5o8  FAILURE. 


Down  yon  gulf  below  ? 
'Tis  thy  world,  'tis  ray  world, 

City,  mead,  and  shore. 
For  he  that  hath  his  own  world 

Hath  many  worlds  more. 


LOVE'S  THREAD  OF  GOLD. 

In  the  night  she  told  a  story, 

In  the  night  and  all  night  through, 
While  the  moon  was  in  her  glory. 

And  the  branches  droj)ped  with  dew. 
'Twas  my  life  she  told,  and  round  it 

Rose  the  years  as  from  a  deep  ; 
In  the  world's  great  heart  she  found  it, 

Cradled  like  a  child  asleep. 
In  the  night  I  saw  her  weaving 

By  the  misty  moonbeam  cold, 
All  the  weft  her  shuttle  cleaving 

With  a  sacred  thread  of  gold. 
Ah  !  she  wept  me  tears  of  sorrow, 

Lulling  tears  so  mystic  sweet  \ 
Then  she  wove  my  last  to-morrow, 

And  her  web  lay  at  my  feet. 
Of  my  life  she  made  the  story  : 

I  must  weep — so  soon  'twas  told  1 
But  your  name  did  lend  it  glory. 

And  your  love  its  thread  of  gold  ! 


FAILURE. 


We  are  much  bound  to  them  that  do  succeed 
But,  in  a  more  patlietic  sense,  are  bound 
To  such  as  fail.     They  all  our  loss  expound  ; 

They  comfort  us  for  work  that  will  not  speed, 

And  life — itself  a  failure. 


A}%  his  deed, 
Sweetest  in  story,  who  the  dusk  profound 
Of  Hades  flooded  with  entrancing  sound, 
Music's  own  tears,  was  failure.     Doth  it  read 
Therefore  the  worse  ?     Ah,  no  !  so  much  to  dare 

He  fronts  the  regnant  Darkness  on  its  throne. — 
So  much  to  do  ;  impetuous  even  there, 

He  pours  out  love's  disconsolate  sweet  moan — 
He  wins  ;  but  few  for  that  his  deed  recall : 
Its  power  is  in  the  look  which  costs  him  all. 


ONE  MORNING,  OH  I  SO  EARLY. 

One  morning,  oh  !  so  early,  my  beloved,  my  beloved, 
All  the  birds  were  singing  blithely,  as  if  never  they 

would  cease ; 
'Twas  a  thrush  sang  in  my  garden,  "  Hear  the  story, 
hear  the  story  !  " 

And  the  lark  sang,  "  Give  us  glory  !  " 
And  the  dove  said,   "  Give  us  peace  !  " 

Then  I  listened,  oh  1  so  early,    my  beloved,   my  be- 
loved, 
To  that  murmur  from  the  woodland  of  the  dove,  my 

dear,  the  dove  ; 
When  the  nightingale  came  after,  "  Give  us  fame  to 
sweeten  duty !  " 

When  the  wren  sang,  "  Give  us  beauty  I  " 
She  made  answer,  "  Give  us  love  !  " 

Sweet  is  spring,  and  sweet  the  morning,  my  beloved, 

my  beloved  ; 
Now  for  us  doth  spring,  doth  morning,  wait  upon  the 

year's  increase. 
And  my  prayer  goes  up,  "  Oh,  give  us,  crowned  in 
youth  with  marriage  glory, 

Give  for  all  our  life's  dear  story. 
Give  us  love,  and  give  us  peace  I " 


5IO  THE  DAYS  WITHOUT  ALLOY. 


THE  DAYS  WITHOUT  ALLOY. 

When  I  sit  on  market-days  amid  the  comers  and  the 
goers, 
Oh !  full  oft  I  have   a  vision  of  the  days  without 
alloy, 
And  a  ship  comes  up  the  river  with  a  jolly  gang  of 
towers, 
And  a   "  puU'e  haul'e,  pull'e   haul'e,  yoy  I  heave, 
hoy!" 

There  is  busy  talk  around  me,  all  about  mine  ears  it 
hummeth. 
But  the  wooden  wharves  I  look  on,  and  a  dancing, 
heaving  buoy, 
For  'tis  tidetime  in  the  river,  and  she  cometh — oh, 
she  cometh ! 
With  a  "  pull'e  haul'e,  pull'e  haul'e,  j'oy  !  heave, 
hoy  !  " 

Then  I  hear  the  water  washing,  never  golden  waves 
were  brighter, 
And  I  hear  the  capstan  creaking — 'tis  a  sound  that 
cannot  cloy. 
Bring  her  to,  to  ship  her  lading,  brig  or  schooner, 
sloop  or  lighter. 
With  a  "  pull'e  haul'e,  pull'e  haul'e,  yoy  !  heave, 
hoy  1 " 

"  Will  ye  step  aboard,  my  dearest  ?  for  the  high  «eas 
lie  before  us." 
So  I  sailed  with  him  the  river  in  those  days  with- 
out alloy ; 

Sailed   afar,   but  when,   I    wonder,   shall   a   sweeter 
sound  float  o'er  us 

Than  yon  "  pull'e  haul'e,  pull'e  haul'e,  yoy  1  heave, 
hoy  ! " 


ON  THE  ROCKS  B  Y  ABERDEEN  5 1 1 


THE  LEAVES  OF  LIGN  ALOES. 

Drop,  drop  from  the  leaves  of  lign  aloes, 
O  honey-dew  !  drop  from  the  tree. 

Float  \\^  though  your  clear  river  shallows, 
White  lilies,  beloved  of  the  bee. 

Let  the  people,  O  Queen !  say,  and  bless  theo, 
Her  bounty  drops  soft  as  the  dew. 

And  spotless  in  honor  confess  thee,  *■ 

As  lilies  are  spotless  in  hue. 

On  the  roof  stands  yon  white  stork  awaking, 
His  feathers  flush  rosy  the  while, 

For,  lo  !  from  the  blushing  east  breaking, 
The  sun  sheds  the  bloom  of  his  smile. 

Let  them  boast  of  thy  word,  "  It  is  certain  ; 

We  doubt  it  no  more,"  let  them  say, 
"Than  to-moj-row  that  night's  dusky  curtain 

Shall  roll  back  its  folds  for  the  day." 


ON  THE  ROCKS  BY  ABERDEEN. 

On  the  rocks  by  Aberdeen, 
Where  the  whislin'  wave  had  been 
As  I  wandered  and  at  e'en 

Was  eerie ; 
There  I  saw  thee  sailing  west, 
And  I  ran  with  joy  opprest — 
Ay,  and  took  out  all  my  best, 

My  dearie. 

Then  I  busked  mysel'  wi'  speed, 
And  the  neighbors  cried  "  What  need  ? 
'Tis  a  lass  in  any  weed 
Aye  bonny ! 


5 1 2  FEA  THERS  A  ND  MOSS. 


Now  my  heart,  my  heart  is  sair  : 
"What's  the  good,  though  I  be  fair, 
For  thoii'lt  never  see  rae  mair, 
Man  Johnnie  I 


FEATHERS  AND  MOSS. 

Thk  marten  flew  to  the  finch's  nest, 
Feathers  and  moss,  and  a  wisp  of  hay  : 

*'  The  arrow  it  sped  to  thy  brown  mate's  breast ; 
Low  in  the  broom  is  thy  mate  to-day." 

**  Licst  thou  low,  love  ?  low  in  the  broom  ? 

Feathers  and  moss,  and  a  wisp  of  hay. 
Warm  the  Avhite  eggs  till  I  Itcrn  his  doouio" 

She  beateth  her  wings,  and  away,  away. 

"  Ah,  my  sweet  singer,  thy  days  are  told 
(Feathers  and  moss,  and  a  wisp  of  hay)  1 

Thine  eyes  are  dim,  and  the  eggs  grow  cold. 
O  mournful  morrow  !     O  dark  to-day  I  " 

The  finch  flew  back  to  her  cold,  cold  nest, 
Feathers  and  moss,  and  a  wisp  of  hay, 

Mine  is  the  trouble  that  rent  her  breast, 
And  home  is  silent,  and  love  is  clay. 


Sweet  is  childhood— childhood's  over, 

Kiss  and  part. 
Sweet  is  youth  ;  but  youth's  a  rover — 

So's  my  heart. 
Sweet  is  rest ;  but  by  all  showing 

Toil  is  nigh. 
We  must  go.     Alas  !  the  going, 

Say  "  good-bye." 


MY  FAIR  LADY.  513 

TUE  GYPSY'S  SELLING  SONG. 

M  V  good  man — he's  an  old,  old  man, 

And  my  good  man  got  a  fall, 
To  buy  me  a  bargain  so  fast  he  ran 
When  he  heard  the  gypsies  call  : 
"  Buy,  buy  brushes, 
Baskets  wrought  o'  rushes. 
Buy  them,  buy  them,  take  them,  try  them, 
Buy,  dames  all." 

My  old  man,  he  has  money  and  land, 

And  a  young,  young  wife  am  I. 
Let  him  put  the  penny  in  my  white  hand 
When  he  hears  the  gypsies  cry  : 
"  Buy,  buy  laces, 
Veils  to  screen  your  faces. 
Buy  them,  buy  them,  take  and  try  them. 
Buy,  maids,  buy." 


MY  PAIR  LADY. 

My  fair  lady's  a  dear,  dear  lady — 

I  walked  by  her  side  to  woo. 
In  a  garden  alley,  so  sweet  and  shady, 
She  answered,  "  I  love  not  you, 
.John,  John  Brady," 
Quoth  my  dear  lady, 
"  Pray  now,  pray  now,  go  your  way  now, 
Do,  John,  do." 

YoT  my  fair  lady's  my  own,  own  lady. 

For  I  passed  another  day  \ 
While  making  her  moan,  she  sat  ail  alone, 
And  thus  and  thus  did  she  say  : 
"John,  John  Brady," 
Quoth  my  dear  lady, 
"  Do  now,  do  now,  once  more  woo  now, 
Pray,  John,  pray  1 " 


5^4      MASTER,  QUOTH  THE  AULD  HOUND. 


SLEEP  AND  TIME. 

"  Wake,  baillie,  wake  1  the  crafts  are  out ; 

Wake  !  •'  said  the  knight,  "  be  quick ! 
For  high  street,  bye  street,  over  the  town 

They  fight  with  poker  and  stick." 
Said  the  squire,  "  A  fight  so  fell  was  ne'er 

In  all  thy  baillie  wick." 
What  said  the  old  clock  in  the  toAver  ? 
"Tick,  tick,  tick!  " 

"  Wake,  daughter,  wake  !  the  hour  draws  on  ; 

Wake,"  quoth  the  dame,  "  be  quick  ! 
The  meats  are  set,  the  guests  are  coming, 

The  fiddler  waxing  his  stick." 
She  said,  "  The  bridgroom  waiting  and  waiting: 

To  see  thy  face  is  sick." 
What  said  the  new  clock  in  her  bower  ? 
"  Tick,  tick,  tick  1  " 


MASTER,  QUOTH  THE  AULD  HOUND. 

"  Master,"  quoth  the  auld  hound, 

"  Where  will  ye  go  ?  " 
*'  Over  moss,  over  muir. 

To  court  my  new  jo." 
"  Master,  though  the  night  be  merk, 

I'se  follow  through  the  snow. 

"Court  her,  master,  court  her, 

So  shall  ye  do  weel ; 
But  and  ben  she'll  guide  the  house, 

I'se  get  milk  and  meal, 
Ye'se  get  Hlting  while  she  sits 

With  her  rock  aud  reel." 


AT  ONE  AGATN.  515 


"  For,  oh  I  she  has  a  sweet  tongue, 
And  een  that  look  down, 

A  gold  girdle  for  her  waist. 
And  a  purple  gown. 

She  has  a  good  word  forbye 
Fra  a'  folk  in  the  town." 


LIKE  A  LAVEROCK  IN  THE  LIFT. 

It's  we  two,  it's  we  two,  it's  we  two  for  aye. 
All  the  world  and  we  two,  and  Heaven  be  our  stay. 
Like  a  laverock  in  the  lift,  sing,  O  bonny  bride  ! 
All  the  world  was  Adam  once,  with  Eve  by  his  side. 

What's  the  world,  my  lass,  my  love  ! — what  can  it  do  ? 
I  am  thine,  and  thou  art  mine;  life  is  sweet  and  new. 
If  the  world  have  missed  the  mark,  let  it  stand  by^ 
For  we  two  have  gotten  leave,  and  once  more  we'll 
try. 

Like  a  laverock  in  the  lift,  sing,  O  bonny  bride  ! 
It's  we  two,  it's  we  two,  happy  side  by  side. 
Take  a  kiss  from  me  thy  man;  now  the  song  begins  : 
"  All  is  made  afresh  for  us,  and  the  brave  heart  wins." 

When  the  darker  days  come,  and  no  sun  will  shine, 
Thou  shalt  dry  my  tears,  lass,  and  I'll  dry  thine. 
It's  we  two,  it's  we  two,  while  the  world's  away. 
Bitting  by  the  golden  sheaves  on  our  wedding-day. 


AT  ONE  AGAIN. 


I.      NOONDAY. 


Two  angry  men — in  heat  they  sever. 

And  one  goes  home  by  a  harvest  field  : — 

"Hope's  nought,"  quoth  he,  "and  vain  endeavor, 
•'  I  said  and  say  it,  I  will  not  yield  \ 


5 1 6  AT  ONE  A  GAIN. 


"  As  for  this  wrong,  no  art  can  mend  it, 
The  bond  is  shiver'd  that  held  us  twain; 

Old  friends  we  be,  but  law  must  end  it. 
Whether  for  loss  or  whether  for  gain. 

"  Yon  stream  is  small — full  slow  its  wending; 

But  winning  is  sweet,  but  right  is  fine; 
And  shoal  of  trout,  or  willowy  bending — 

Though  Law  be  costly — I'll  prove  them  mine. 

"  His  strawberry  cow  slipped  loose  her  tether, 
And  trod  the  best  of  my  barley  down; 

His  little  lasses  at  play  together 

Pluck' d  the  poppies  my  boys  had  grown. 

"  What  then— Why  naught !  She  lack'd  of  reason; 

And  they — my  little  ones  match  them  well : — 
But  this — Nay  all  things  have  their  season, 

And  'tis  my  season  to  curb  and  quell." 


II.      SUNSET. 

So  saith  he,  when  noontide  fervors  flout  him, 
So  thinks,  when  the  West  is  amber  and  red, 

When  he  smells  the  hop- vines  sweet  about  him, 
And  the  clouds  are  rosy  overhead. 

While  slender  and  tall  the  hop-poles  going 
Straight  to  the  West  in  their  leafy  lines, 

Portion  it  out  into  chambers,  glowing, 
And  bask  in  red  day  as  the  sun  declines. 

Between  the  leaves  in  his  latticed  arbor 
He  sees  the  sky,  as  they  flutter  and  turn, 

While  moor'd  like  boats  in  a  golden  harbor 
The  fleets  of  feathery  cloudlets  burn. 


AT  ONE  AGAIN.  $17 


Withdrawn  in  shadow,  he  thinketh  over 

Harsh  thoughts,  the  fruit-laden  trees  amon^, 

Till  pheasants  call  their  young  to  cover, 
And  cushats  coo  them  a  nursery  song. 

And  flocks  of  ducks  forsake  their  sedges. 
Wending  home  to  the  wide  barn-door. 

And  loaded  wains  between  the  hedges 
Slowly  creep  to  his  threshing  floor — 

Slowly  creep.    And  his  tired  senses, 
Float  him  over  the  magic  stream, 

To  a  world  where  Fancy  recompenses 

Vengeful  thoughts,  with  a  troubled  dream  \ 


III.      THE  DREAM. 

What's  this  ?  a  wood — What's  that  ?   one  ealleth, 
Calleth  and  cryeth  in  mortal  dread — 

He  hears  men  strive — then  somewhat  falleth  ! — 
"  Help  me,  neighbor — I'm  hard  bedstead." 

The  dream  is  strong — the  voice  he  knoweth — 
But  when  he  would  run,  his  feet  are  fast, 

And  death  lies  beyond,  and  no  man  goeth 
To  help,  and  he  says  the  time  is  past. 

His  feet  are  held,  and  he  shakes  all  ov^er, — 
Nay — they  are  free — he  has  found  the  place — 

Green  boughs  are  gather'd — what  is't  they  covex? — 
"  1  pray  you,  look  on  the  dead  man's  face; 

You  that  stand  by;"  he  saith,  and  cowers — 

"  Man,  or  Angel,  to  guard  the  dead 
With  shadowy  spear,  and  a  brow  that  lowers, 

And  wing-points  reared  in  the  gloom  o'erhead. — 


5 18  AT  ONE  A  GAIN. 

I  dare  not  look.     He  wronged  me  never. 

Men  say  we  differ'd  ;  the  speak  amiss  : 
This  man  and  I  were  neighbors  ever — 

1  would  have  ventured  my  hfe  for  his. 

But  fast  my  feet  were — fast  with  tangles — 

Aye  !  words — but  they  were  not  sharp,  I  tro'Wj 

Though  parish  feuds  and  vestry  wrangles — 
O  pitiful  sight — I  see  thee  now  ! — 

If  we  fell  out,  'twas  but  foul  weather, 
After  long  shining !  O  bitter  cup, — 

What — dead  ? — why,  man,  we  play'd  together — 
Art  dead — ere  a  friend  can  make  it  up  ?  " 


V.    THE    WAKING. 

Over  his  head  the  chafer  hummeth 
Under  his  feet  shut  daisies  bend  : 

Waken,  man  !  the  enemy  cometh. 

Thy  neighbor,  counted  so  long  a  friend. 

He  cannot  waken — and  firm,  and  steady. 
The  enemy  comes  with  lowering  brow  ; 

He  looks  for  war,  his  heart  is  ready, 

His  thoughts  are  bitter — he  will  not  bow. 

Ue  fronts  the  seat, — the  dream  is  flinging 
A  spell  that  his  footsteps  may  not  break. 

But  one  in  the  garden  of  hops  is  singing — 
The  dreamer  hears  it,  and  starts  awake. 


V.    A    SONG. 

Walking  apart,  she  thinks  none  listen  ; 

And  now  she  carols,  and  now  she  stops  ; 
And  the  evening  star  begins  to  glisten 

Atween  the  lines  of  blossoming  hops. 


-4  T  ONE  A  CAIN.  5 1 9 

Sweetest  Mercy,  your  mother  taught  you 
All  uses  and  cares  that  to  maids  belong  ; 

Apt  scholar  to  read  and  to  sew  she  thought  you — 
She  did  not  teach  you  that  tender  song — 

"  The  lady  sang  in  her  charmed  bower, 
Sheltered  and  safe  under  rose?  blown — 

^  Storm  cannot  touch  me,  hail,  nor  shower. 
Where  all  alone  I  sit,  all  alone, 

My  bower  !     The  fair  Fay  twined  it  round  me  ; 

Care  nor  trouble  can  pierce  it  through  ; 
But  once  a  sigh  from  the  warm  world  found  me 

Between  two  leaves  that  were  bent  with  dew. 

And  day  to  night,  and  night  to  tnorrow. 
Though  soft  as  slumber  the  long  Jiours  wore 

I  looked  for  my  doiver  of  love,  of  sorrow —  * 
Is  there  no  more — no  more — no  more  ? ' 

Give  her  the  sun-sweet  light,  and  duly 
To  walk  in  shadow,  nor  chide  her  jjart ; 

Give  her  the  rose,  and  truly,  truly — 

To  wear  its  thorn  with  a  patient  heart — 

Misty  as  dreams  the  moonbeam  lyeth 

Chequered  and  faint  on  her  charmed  floor  ; 

The  lady  singeth,  the  lady  sigheth — 
Is  there  no  more — no  more — no  more  1  " 


VI.    LOVERS. 

A  CRASH  of  boughs  I — one  through  them  breakiv.»g  \ 
Mercy  is  startled,  and  fain  would  fly, 

But  e'en  as  she  turns,  her  steps  o'ertaking, 
He  pleads  with  her — "  Mercy,  it  is  but  II" 


520  AT  ONE  AGAIN. 

"  Mercy  5  "  he  touches  her  hand  unbidden — 
*'  The  air  is  bahny,  I  pray  you  stay — 

Mercy  ?  "     Rer  downcast  ejes  are  hidden, 
And  never  a  word  she  has  to  say. 

Till  closer  drawn,  her  prison'd  fingers 

He  takes  to  his  lips  with  a  yearning  strong ; 

And  she  murmurs  low,  that  late  she  lingers. 
Her  mother  will  want  her,  and  think  her  long. 

"  Good  mother  is  she,  then  honor  duly 
The  lightest  wish  in  her  heart  that  stirs  ; 

But  there  is  a  bond  yet  dearer  truly, 
And  thei'e  is  a  love  that  passeth  hers. 

Mercy,  Mercy  !  "     Her  heart  attendeth — 

Love's  birthday  blush  on  her  brow  lies  sweet  % 

She  turns  her  face  when  his  own  he  bendeth, 
And  the  lips  of  the  youth  and  the  maiden  meet. 


VII.    FATHERS. 

Move  through  the  bowering  hops,  O  lovers, — 
Wander  down  to  the  golden  West, — 

But  two  stand  mute  in  the  shade  that  covers 
Your  love  and  youth  from  their  souls  opprest. 

A  little  shame  on  their  spirits  stealing, — 
A  little  pride  that  is  loth  to  sue, — 

A  little  struggle  with  soften'd  feeling, — 
And  a  world  of  fatherly  care  for  you. 

One  says  :  "  To  this  same  running  water, 
May  be,  Neighbor,  your  claim  is  best" 

And  one — "  Your  son  has  kissed  Jiiy  daughter 
Let  the  mattei'S  between  us — rest," 


NOTES. 


"  The  Dreams  that  Came  Tr0K." 
Page  199. 
This  story  I  first  wrote  in  prose,  and  it  was  published  some  yean) 
ago. 

"A  Story  of  Doom." 
Page  271. 
The  name  o£  the  patriarch's  wife  is  intended  to  bo  pronounced 
Nigh-loi-}'a. 

Of  the  three  sons  of  Noah— Shem,  Ham,  and  Japhet— I  have  called 
Japhet  the  youngest  (because  he  is  always  named  last),  and  have 
supposed  that,  in  the  genealogies  where  he  is  called  "  Japhet  the 
elder,"  he  may  have  received  the  epithet  because  by  that  time  there 
v\ei«  jovinger  Japhets. 

Page  324. 

The  quivering  butterflies  in  ccmpanies. 
That  slowly  crept  adown  the  sandy  margo, 
Like  lioing  crocus  beds. 
This  beautiful  comparison  is  taken  from  "  The  Naturalint  on  tho 
River  Amazon."     "  Vast  numbers  of  orange-colored  butterflies  con- 
gregated  on   the   moist  sands.     They  assembled  in  densely-packed 
masses,  sometimes  two  or  three  yards  in  circumference,  their  wings 
all  held  in  an  upright  position,  so  that  the  sands  looked  as  though 
variegated  with  beds  of  crocuses." 

"Gladys  and  her  Island." 

Page  366. 

The  woman  is  Imagination ;  she  is  brooding  over  what  she  brought 

forth. 
The  two  purple  peaks  represent  the  domains  of  Poetry  and  of  His- 
tory. 
The  girl  is  Fancy. 

"  Winstanlet.' 
Page  402. 
This  ballad  was  intended  to  be  on«  of  a  set,  and  was  read  to  tho 
children  in  the  National  Schools  at  Sherborne,  Dorsetshire,  in  order 
to  discover  whether,  if  the  actions  of  a  hero  were  simply  and  plainly 
narrated,  English  children  would  like  to  learu  the  verses  record! iif 
them  by  heart,  as  their  forefatiiers  did. 


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